Across the Face of the World (54 page)

'For her part, Parlevaag wishes to remain with the Company. She has lost her husband to the Bhrudwans, and does not want to go back to the vidda. She feels she has a debt to pay the Company, although she does not know how she might discharge it.'

Kurr stood to reply. 'Tell Parlevaag that she has something valu¬able that we need. The Council of Faltha will listen to an eyewit¬ness account such as hers. She is most welcome to join the Company, but she must not think she has to repay any debt.' He turned and smiled at the Fenni woman, who worked her troubled face into a slight smile in return.

'I must have more time,' Perdu said. 'I will give you my answer in the morning.' He walked over to Parlevaag, sat down beside her and began to explain what had just been said.

As the twilight faded into night and the drizzle intensified into a steady rain, a long silence enveloped the group perched on the slopes of Steffi. The low clouds ensured total darkness, so that no person could see any other, and people were left with their own thoughts. And still Stella had not spoken a word since the battle.

A cold wind blew through Withwestwa Wood. The Fodhram moved surely in the fading light, making swift progress through thicket and thorn until the dark made further travel impossible.

Then, after they had made camp, there was a lot of talking, mostly in a language the Trader couldn't understand, but just hearing the conversation began to reawaken something human within him. A fire was lit, hot broth was passed around and laughter shared, warming Mahnum's heart.

That dark night was a series of sounds and smells, a parade of friendship that Mahnum's dry spirit drank in thirstily. Never after¬wards was he to forget that night, though he could not remember one word of what had been said. Through the rest of his life, the pungent aroma of leather, the sound of carefree laughter, or the soft whisper of voices in keen debate evoked in him bittersweet memories of the first night he shared with the Fodhram.

His thoughts strayed to his younger son. Images of Leith rose up before him: his awkwardness at the Midwinter Play; bright, intelligent eyes that were so often clouded by fear and self-doubt; a frightened youth with upraised sword, teetering on the edge of courage and fear as he prepared to smite the Bhrudwan leader. An enigma, a boy who had needed his father the most when he had not been there. Hold firm, Leith; I'm coming for you.

Farr rose to meet the dawn. The low cloud had been borne away during the night by a stiff easterly breeze, bringing with it the over¬powering stench of sulphur from the heights of Steffi. Now the day awoke bright and clear, as though nothing untoward had happened under the cloak of night.

He knelt for a few minutes by a pile of ashes next to the Westway, then picked himself up and spent an hour searching the banks of the river. Some animal had been at the two bodies below the broken bridge; apart from that, it appeared that nothing had stirred along the steep-sided stream. Certainly there was no sign of Leith.

On an impulse, he headed upslope. Soon he found a ridge that rose above the treeline, and on the open ground he was able to increase his pace. Finally, after many minutes of strenuous effort, he turned to survey the wood.

Once again, just as it had when the Mossbank River broke up, the presence of the forest flooded his senses. This time the sensa¬tion of vigour, of solidity, of peace and joy, was even stronger than before. He was lost in it beyond recovery. It offered him privacy, a sanctuary he had never found in the raw, exposed slopes of his Vinkullen home. There was a freshness, an honesty, in the wood and in those who dwelt there that offered him hope. Perhaps he could be more than he had been.

There's magic in these woods, he thought as he watched the spring colours brighten below him, picked out by the morning sun and shadow. There is a song here that one could sing forever; there is a task here that one could give his life to fulfil. He laughed at himself. Listen to Farr Storrsen, the great philosopher! Perhaps I should join the Hermit in his cold caves! But in spite of his feeling of foolishness, there was something all around him, a bright light that would not go away.

Farr turned and glanced at the morning sun; with a shock he

realised that an hour had passed since he had left the river far below. The others would be ready to leave, or perhaps even looking for him, afraid that he too had been taken by an unknown enemy. As he scanned the horizon a final time, he noticed a smoky haze far to the south. For a moment he strained his eyes, but even the far-sighted vision of a Vinkullen man could not see the source of the smoke. Nevertheless, his skin chilled at what it might signify.

With great haste, he abandoned his high seat and scurried down the mountainside towards the others.

What am I going to do now? How will 1 ever escape my fate? Stella spent the early hours of the morning pacing along the cliff-top, seeking an answer for her dilemma. I could not hear it if they make me go back to Loulea: no matter what they do, 1 shall not, 1 shall not be the wife of such a brute. Her eyes were continually drawn to that place beside the Westway, beyond the sleeping members of the Company, where Wira had given his death to her. Why, Wira, why? she cried in the loneliness of her mind. Why did you have to die? She shook as she poured all her passion, all her powers of concentration, into the image of Wira still alive, still with her; but the ashes of the pyre stayed where they were, stirred fitfully by the morning mountain breeze, and her abject solitude rose up as an enemy before her, trapping her in a deathly embrace.

'If you don't want him, give him my name!' Fania had said to her when Stella had finally found the courage to tell someone about Druin's attentions. 'Really, Stell, he can't possibly be that bad. You must take him as your husband; it's your duty. Besides he's so - well, look around! Who else in Loulea Vale compares to Druin?' She ran through the contenders.

'Dammish? All he ever talks about is hunting. Gloan would be all right as long as you never had to get closer than six feet from him. Feerich? Hasn't the wit to remember anyone else's name but his own. Stend? He only has eyes for Anesel - and just as well. Leith? He's far too young. I know he's the same age as you, but really, he's a baby. Hal? Well - is Hal interested in girls? And then there's Lanka from Brookside; his mother would never let him marry someone from Loulea. Apart from Druin, there is no one suitable this side of Vapnatak. Come on, Stell; don't be so proud.'

Proud? Stella snorted. I'd do anything, endure any kind of public humiliation, marry any of the other boys, or even one of the widowed farmers, anything, anything . . . Oh Wira, 1

needed you so much! They don't know Druin, none of them do. The perfect outcome would be to return to Loulea and find that he had moved on, or died, or something, please . . .

Perhaps he will volunteer for the army when this war they are all talking about finally comes; perhaps he'll be killed . . .

If we ever return to Loulea, it won't be for some time yet. We're still moving east, we still have a task to complete, one which may take many months — the longer the better. Druin - all of them - will think, probably already think we're dead; perhaps he will marry before we return. Maybe Druin and Fania ... Hope rose within her so strongly she felt sick, felt dizzy with the pain of it. Let it be so! If there is any way I can prevent our return to that sorry little valley, I'll do it. Let them marry! Let them forget about me!

She sat on a fallen tree, overwhelmed by her misfortune, and buried her head in her hands.

There was no one she could talk to, she was certain none of the others would understand. If she leaned forward she could see over the edge of the high bank, down into the stream far below. In her misery she could not keep the image of falling from flashing through her mind, the rocks coming ever closer ...

Mahnum and the Fodhram were up and travelling in the dim pre¬dawn light after only a few hours' rest under the rain-soaked eaves. The forest-dwellers had divided into several small groups and fanned out over a wide front, seeking sign of their quarry.

Ahead the air was hazy, as though a mist had blown in from the south. Mahnum found himself coughing and his eyes began to run. This is no mist, he thought. The forest is on fire!

Ahead the Fodhram increased their pace, breaking into a trot.

Where the smoke was at its thickest, they broke out of the forest. There was something burning ahead of them - no, there were fires at several places in the clearing. Flames licked the roots of those young saplings over to the right. Mahnum looked more closely; they were spears, not saplings. Rows of spears. He stared a moment longer, then turned away in horror.

The spears were protruding from the burning bodies of men, women and children.

All around the clearing men hid their faces. Others wept openly, the smoke adding to their tears. Grimly, the Warden of Withwestwa Wood walked among his men, comforting the ones who had kin among those the Widuz had taken. Mahnum had thought he was inured to horror, but he was wrong. How could the world bear such cruelty? Why did men do such things? It was beyond imagining.

The Warden walked up and down the rows of spears, his face streaked with tears, while the stricken Trader sat on the ground at the edge of the clearing, afraid to look for his son among the charred remains. Time stood still: the morning itself seemed to slow down to take a closer look at the violence committed under its nose.

'Not all the captives lie here,' the Warden said. 'We must go on.'

'We go on!' one of the men shouted hoarsely. His wife lay butchered in the clearing.

No one else spoke, but Mahnum could feel the anger and grief in the thick, smoky atmosphere. These normally jovial people, quick to laugh and ever ready with speech, had been stunned by the scene in the clearing. Soon the shock would turn to anger. What are these people going to do?

Did his own son lie in the clearing? The Trader did not want to face the task of searching along the gruesome rows, but he took a steadying breath and forced himself to his feet. Lord Most High! he grimaced as he walked through the unnatural thicket. What terror must have filled this place? Up and down the rows he went, fighting wave after wave of the dizziness that threatened to over¬whelm him as he searched for the face he feared to find. It seemed to take forever to come to the end of the spears, but finally he did, without finding his son. He nearly collapsed from the sudden release of tension.

The Warden posted a few guards to protect the clearing of the spears, then they moved swiftly away to the south, into lands unknown by any of the dwellers of Withwestwa Wood.

Leith and the other captives shuffled on into the forest, past hunger and pain and into numbness. At the end of each day they were allowed a few hours' sleep on the pine-needle-strewn cold ground; well before dawn they rose and were force-marched through the day, with nothing to eat or drink until evening. No one was permitted to talk throughout the long march south. The captives were roped together, but Leith never learned the names of either the boy in front of him or the woman behind. On the seventh day - as near as Leith could tell -

a boy near the front of the line collapsed and did not get up again. Within moments he was cut away from the others and pushed against a tree. A little girl -possibly the boy's sister, she had hair the same colour — started to cry. The line jerked forwards and the cruel pace continued, leaving the boy behind. After a while the little girl stopped sobbing and only the sound of feet on the path disturbed the eerie silence of the trees. After a week of this punishment Leith no longer cared whether he lived or died.

The captives were too exhausted to notice the land begin to rise. The trees towered above them, unchanging to all but the most subtle of eyes, but there were changes in the forest as they progressed further south into warmer lands. Trees which in northern lands grew tall and unadorned were in the south draped with vines and climbers, and the undergrowth was much denser. Lianas, ferns and all manner of climbing plants fought with each other to scale the great trees, struggling upwards towards the light hundreds of feet above the dank forest floor.

Many of the trees looked as though they were being silently strangled to death. The forest grew darker, thicker and more forbidding as the captives went south into shadow. By various narrow paths they were taken deep into the dark, tree-draped highlands of Clovenhill, the land of the Widuz.

The forest sounds changed also, as though somewhere behind the captives an invisible line had been crossed. In Withwestwa Wood the sparrows and finches, magpies and kites sang of spring¬time and made quiet nesting sounds, but here in the south the birds, invisible in the gloom, made harsh noises. From up in the canopy came a cacophony of croaks, screeches and howls as birds of unknown shape competed with each other for the meagre resources of the semi-darkness. And occasionally other sounds came from the depths of the forest: snarls, growls, moans and once the high-pitched scream of some terrified animal in the throes of death.

For all they could see in this dim, twilight world, the captives might as well have been blindfolded. So it was that Leith did not see the crude poverty of the people who lived near the paths the captives took. The poor soils of Widuz were thinly spread over a bed of limestone and marble, and would not support farming for more than two or three years at a time. Typically, farmers would burn down an area of forest, then farm in the clearing, the soils given some passing fertility by the ashes of the trees. The very rare visitor to these hidden lands was struck by the lushness of the green forest, a fecundity that passed imagination when compared to the pine forests of the north, but was astonished to realise that the same soil that supported the mighty forest would feed only a few thousand people, and that at purely a subsistence level. And the very rare visitor to the hidden lands of Widuz seldom left them.

The Falthans, the descendants of the First Men, had largely forgotten what had made the Widuz such a fierce and insular race. Those who had not dismissed them entirely from their memory merely considered them a barbaric people who would attack their neighbours without provocation. They did not remember the way the children and grandchildren of the First Men treated the Widuz, who were then a numerous race inhabiting the wide plains between the Remparer and the Jawbone Mountains; how they were harried and hounded, driven from their lands with violence, treachery and bloodshed, retreating to the fastness of Clovenhill, the poorest of their vast lands, pursued to the forest's edge by fire and sword. The few survivors of the slaughter swore to rid the land of the First Men, but had found their energies absorbed by the bitter task of staying alive.