Blade Kin (8 page)

Chapter 13: Phylomon’s Return

In the early afternoon, Phylomon the Starfarer tacked into the long fjord at the mouth of Smilodon Bay and began sailing upriver to the town itself; the sails sagged once they escaped the open sea, as did his shoulders, as he eased into calmer waters.

Even in the cold wind, the ancient Starfarer wore little. For protection from the wind and cold, he relied upon his pale-blue symbiote, which covered him like a second skin.

On the hills above the fjord, huge redwoods overshadowed the river so that it felt as calm as a lagoon. Woodpeckers tapped the trees and gray squirrels and jays chattered to announce his presence. Scandal the innkeeper lay in back of the boat under a tarp, snoring.

Phylomon recalled other trips he’d made to Smilodon Bay, hundreds of years ago. He’d been taking seritactates then, and the drugs had let him record memories flawlessly.

Eight hundred years ago, Smilodon Bay had been nothing. On his first visit he had come to see how the woodland mastodons that his father had introduced were faring. The redwoods had been younger, hardier.

Two hundred years later, he’d sailed here again, bringing a load of cloth to a Neanderthal fishing village. The natives painted themselves blue when they saw Phylomon, and worshiped him as a god. On that warm spring day the Pwi were smoking fish, slowly roasting them on twigs along an embankment. Oily blue smoke swirled among the trees and hung heavy near the ground. A shaman had complained bitterly to Phylomon that battles with slavers had killed all the old men, so now there were not enough old men to teach the young boys. It was a blatant attempt to get Phylomon to stay, to share his knowledge, but Phylomon had left anyway.

One hundred and seventy years later, when he returned, the village had crumbled, hogans rotted into the ground. Not even a circle of stones showed where campfires had been, and he had wondered if he had stayed for a season to help the old shaman, teach the young how to protect themselves from the slavers, if perhaps the village would have remained.

At that time Phylomon had been a warrior with his wife and sons, leading a band of Pwi, hoping to someday attack Bashevgo. Among the ranks was a promising Pwi, only a child really, with rippling cords for muscles, rage in his eyes. Terrazin Dragontamer.

It had been in this camp that Terrazin first called a dragon from its nest—a young brown tyrant bird that dove into camp, beady purple eyes staring from a blood-red serpentine head, waving its venomous horn as it glared at the Pwi.

The psychic link between Terrazin and his animal guide had been frightening to behold. Phylomon had looked in the small dragon’s eyes even then and recognized that they were familiar. They were Terrazin’s eyes. The similarity, the bond between the two creatures, had shocked Phylomon.

It should not have surprised me,
Phylomon thought,
that Terrazin would become so ruthless. It should not have surprised me that the psychic warrior went mad, killed so many.

Phylomon’s blue skin tightened, as if preparing for attack. The ancient symbiote felt his distress.
I am not afraid,
Phylomon told the symbiote
, I am only old. I feel older than my thousand years.

When Phylomon came within sight of the city, gulls and cormorants spun in lazy circles by the shore. The watchmen at the inn above town spotted Phylomon, waved, and shot one of the nine-inch cannons. A colossal waste of gunpowder here in the wilderness.

In the back of the boat, Scandal woke, gazed at the city through the soft haze of the sea wind, grinning to be home again. “Hah,” Scandal laughed, “they’ve shot a cannon for us, a fine welcome!”

Phylomon watched the black stones of the houses and inns. A deep unease settled on him, something he could feel but not explain. “How well do you know Tull?” Phylomon asked. As he said the words, he realized the source of the unease. Tull was from this town, and Terrazin had gained his power here. Tull had taken the sea serpent as his animal guide, Terrazin the dragon. Both creatures formed by the Starfarers. An odd coincidence, but one Phylomon found it hard to shake.

“Why, I’ve known him for eight years,” Scandal said.

“Do you trust him?”

“Of course,” Scandal answered. “He’s honest. I sent him south to White Rock with a shipment of beer when he was fifteen, and he never so much as cracked a keg.”

Phylomon glanced back at him. “How easily can he harm others?”

Scandal sat, taken aback, and Phylomon could tell that Scandal did not speak because he wanted to know the right answer in advance. Scandal sighed. “He scares me a bit, I suppose. You know, you can live next to someone all your life and never really know him. I love that boy, but when we were in Craal, after the Blade Kin whipped him, Tull could have walked away quietly. Yet he had to grab a sword and kill every single one of his guards. He has a strong sense of justice.”

“When you looked in his eyes as he killed, what did you see?”

Scandal squirmed in his seat. Phylomon stared, forced him to answer.

“I guess I saw him butchering those slavers. They weren’t his equal in a fight. He wanted more than blood, more than justice. He was so relaxed, like a man who has just made love. My wife used to say that Tull had ‘Revolution in his eyes,’ but I pitied anyone who met him while he held that naked sword. I’ll be honest. His blood lust scares me.”

“You love him, but he scares you?” Phylomon asked. “Me too.” Phylomon pondered a moment, considered the similarities, tried to put the thought from his mind.

The cannon shot brought people running, and as the little sailboat swept into town, Phylomon searched the banks, but did not see Tull. The mayor’s house had burned to the ground in their absence, and the ashes still smoldered. A crowd of Pwi ran north to cross the redwood bridge, shouting that Phylomon had come to town.

At Moon Dance Inn that evening, the beer flowed freely and a crowd gathered around Phylomon. Scandal sat on a table next to a cage that carried a sour-smelling “bird” from Hotland, and began telling his and Phylomon’s story. The bird was more than half lizard and hung from the top of its cage by its feet, the claws on the end of its scaly fingers gripping the bars. Scandal fed it sweetmeats from his tray as he talked.

Nothing Scandal said seemed to astonish the crowd, though the innkeeper worked hard at it. News of Craal armies a thousand miles away did not impress them—no matter how large the armies.

The villagers had already heard from Tull about how the Creators had formed small humans and were experimenting in genocide. Yet the Pwi did not fear it, and Phylomon realized he should have known the Pwi could not generate much fear of the Creators, for the Creators had never attacked before. No evil kwea had been established in the Pwi’s minds.

“So we got down to Storm Hold,” Scandal said, describing the last leg of their trip, “hoping to get a little rest, and the snow was falling a foot deep in places. You would think that under such conditions, folks would be happy to see us, honest folks escaping Craal, but no. Phylomon and I got no welcome there, and I swear that half the men in the room were pirate slavers, wintering out of Bashevgo.”

Storm Hold, being on the edge of the Rough bordering Craal, had always been rife with shady dealing. But Scandal said, “I’m telling you boys, the town was filled with greedy bastards—not just pirates, but merchants who were just as bad as pirates, men that couldn’t be slimier if they bathed in snot. You wouldn’t catch me dead trying to walk into that town alone. Ayaah, things have changed. When I was a kid, Storm Hold was a fast ally, and a strong one. Now, it’s an outpost of Craal in all but name.”

Suddenly, Phylomon could feel an electricity in the room, a tension that had not been there before. Though stories of distant armies could not faze the Pwi, this small betrayal close to home caused considerable dismay. Tull entered the front door of the inn with Fava and a human girl. Phylomon motioned for them to come sit, and they pressed through the crowd.

“It’s good to see you,” Tull said to Phylomon, clasping his arm.

Phylomon looked deeply into Tull’s eyes. “Good to see you,” he said mechanically. He saw no dragons in the boy’s eyes, but something had changed. “I understand congratulations are in order. You married since last I saw you?”

“Yes,” Fava answered, and as the three seated, Scandal told the crowd how he and Phylomon had stolen a boat to escape Storm Hold.

The two girls, Fava and a dark-haired human, sat with straight backs, muscles tensed. Phylomon could tell that they were uneasy around him. As the last of the Starfarers, he was more legend to them than man. Yet Tull remained open, familiar.

Phylomon said, “I’ve been gathering news from your townsfolk. It seems you made it here with the serpent eggs intact. I’m glad. I suppose I should feel flattered that the Creators thought highly enough of me to send one of their messengers to kill me—though you and Chaa made short work of the beast. Still, it established some bad kwea among the Pwi. They will see the Creators as a threat now.”

“Ayaah,” Tull said, “the Pwi will march when you’re ready. I’ve had the boys practicing with swords for the past few days. But what news have you? Were you able to save the tiny humans?”

Phylomon leaned back in his chair. “Gray birds attacked us twice in as many weeks. They watched us from a safe height and followed until we got to a valley of fog and escaped in the night.

We managed to get ninety small humans to an Okanjara village. I paid the Okanjara well to care for our charges.” Phylomon leaned forward, folded his hands. “You saw the lamprey that the Creators sent for me. Did it look exactly like the others?”

“Yes,” Tull answered, “except that it was much larger, and it had a blue symbiote, like the one you wear.”

“That concerns me,” Phylomon admitted. “Are you absolutely certain that the lamprey is dead?”

Fava said, “The Pwi were afraid, so they burned the body down to ashes.”

“And Chaa skinned it,” Tull said.

Phylomon looked up, suddenly cautious. “He took the symbiote? Where is the hide now?”

“He is tanning it, in the shed behind his house,” Fava answered.

The Starfarer glanced quickly around the room, stood. “I must go study it.”
For the first time,
Phylomon thought,
I am sure. Chaa is playing with me, like a cat with a mouse.

Phylomon realized he must have betrayed his nervousness, for Tull apologized, “He meant no harm. He only took it as a hunting trophy.”

“You are far too naive a pup to understand what he is doing,” Phylomon countered, and he excused himself from the table, walked out the front door of the inn into the afternoon air. A crisp wind had blown in, carrying the smell of salt spray, and Phylomon hurried down the street, walking loose in the joints. After a week in the boat, he hadn’t got his land legs back.

Tull, Fava, and the dark-eyed girl followed.

They rushed downhill through the human part of town with its buildings of leaning gray stone. As they passed the smoking ruins of the mayor’s house, Phylomon said, “This artist you rescued, I trust he is still doing well after the attack?”

“Ayaah,” Tull said. “He’s recovering a bit.”

Phylomon crossed the redwood bridge, hurried past the log hogans of the Pwi with their sod roofs. When he got to Chaa’s house, he walked around the outside to the back, found the worm skin stretched round like a beaver’s pelt. The skin was light blue, the symbiote still alive and healthy. Phylomon touched the thing, could almost feel its desire as it sought another host.

“You see,” Fava said. “It’s here, as I said.”

Leaning close, Phylomon tried to study the knife cuts. He took one knife from his leg sheath, pried off the nails that held the hide to the board, and matched the left and right halves of the symbiote. They fit perfectly—knife stroke for knife stroke. Chaa had apparently not removed any of the skin.

And yet,
Phylomon reasoned,
Chaa is a Spirit Walker with a great deal of knowledge. He could not be so stupid as to leave the symbiote here, waiting for a host, while near-immortality stood within his grasp.

“What is Chaa up to? What is he thinking?” Phylomon whispered more to himself than to the others.

“He’s been busy the past couple of days,” Tull offered. “Chaa has taken me as his pupil, training me to become a Spirit Walker.”

Phylomon tensed and grabbed Tull’s arm, holding it, and he looked deeply at Tull. “What have you learned so far?”

“Nothing,” Tull answered defensively. “I received my first lesson. He began … by trying to open my eyes.” Phylomon’s grip tightened, and Tull tried to pull away.

“What are you afraid of?” Tull asked.

Phylomon looked deep into Tull’s pale green-gold eyes, searching for … something. Tull seemed hurt, confused, and Phylomon realized that the boy deserved better treatment. They had traveled together for months during the summer, worked and sweated and despaired together as they first hunted for young serpents to bring back to Smilodon Bay, then hunted for serpent eggs as a last resort. If not for Tull, their quest would have failed. The boy deserved to be treated as a friend.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I … do not want you to train as a Spirit Walker,” Phylomon measured his words. “To do so, is to turn your back on other prospects. There is a college opening at South Bay where men are beginning to unravel the technology of my ancestors. In fifty years, radio waves will begin to reach us from Earth and we can rediscover how our ancestors entered the atomic age. You could help build the antennae to catch those radio signals. You could learn of their medicines, their machines, their spaceships. All the ancient knowledge of the Starfarers could be yours. You do not need to become a Spirit Walker.”

“Fifty years?” Tull asked. “Perhaps it seems like nothing to you, but I’ll be an old man when those signals start to reach us. Besides, our ancestors sent radio signals for generations before they made any real discoveries.”

“I know my path sounds difficult,” Phylomon offered. “You would need to be patient.”

“And watch our people die? You have seen the Blade Kin on our border. Do you believe we have fifty years to wait or study?” Tull ripped free of Phylomon’s grasp and shouted desperately, “I need some way to fight them now! I need a weapon!”