Noman (2 page)

He was on the far side of the mountain.

Bitter with disappointment, angry with himself for not having anticipated such an obvious possibility, he scanned the scene before him. A broad road ran down the mountain to a gorge. A bridge carried the road across the gorge to the flanks of the next mountain on the far side. And there, toiling up the distant slope, was a wagon drawn by two horses.

Seeker strained his eyes to see. On the flat bed of the wagon lay two white-canopied litters of the kind used to carry the dead. The wagon was making good progress and was far away. The savanters had escaped him again.

Now as he studied the terrain, Seeker saw that the fleeing savanters had taken another precaution to slow down his pursuit. The timber bridge that spanned the gorge was anchored by ropes on either side. The ropes on the far side had been cut. The main span was still attached on his side of the gorge, but the roadway now swayed untethered in the wind, tilting down at a steep angle.

He looked up again and watched the wagon crest the far peak and disappear out of sight. He lifted his gaze to the sky to gauge the position of the declining sun. The wagon was heading east.

He loped down the road to the broken bridge, and from there he made a rapid survey of the gorge that cut off his pursuit. The savanters had planned their escape well. The sides of the gorge were vertical and very deep. Without the bridge in place it was impassable.

For a few wild moments he considered whether he could jump it, but he knew the gap was too wide. He stared at the far side of the gorge. He lifted his eyes to the steep mountain slopes that rose above it. Then he had an idea.

"If I can't get myself to the far side," he said, "I'll have to get the far side to me."

It was a crazy idea. It would take time. But he had the power.

Once again he planted his feet square on the rock, then merged his own life force with the life force of the mountain. Once again he hurled his unstoppable power at the rock face. But this time it was the far side of the gorge that he struck. His blows cracked open the rock and caused it to fall away in a shower of fragments, down and down to the dry riverbed far below. Again and again he struck, driving jagged fissures into the slopes above the gorge, and ever larger sections of the mountain broke loose and slithered down into the smoking depths.

Never relenting, hammer blow after hammer blow, through the afternoon hours as the sun sank in the sky, he pounded the mountain into rubble, and the rubble piled up higher and higher in the gorge. So at last the time came when he could scramble down below the broken bridge and make his way through the swirl of dust over the newly made mound of debris to the other side.

From here he was on his road. Half a day had been lost; but the hunt was on again.

"You won't escape me," he said aloud, as if the savanters could hear him. "You'll never escape me."

At the top of the pass, he paused to study the land ahead. The road wound its way down the mountain to a desert valley studded with rock formations. Beyond the valley rose a further line of hills, much lower than the mountain range on which he stood. Beyond the hills, he could make out a wide plain; and in the far distance, a forest. He searched long and hard for the wagon and at last saw it making its way between the columns of rock in the desert valley below.

The road looped back and forth down the mountain's broad descending flank. Seeker took the direct route, springing from loop to loop, landing each time on the flat road, steadying himself for the next jump. In this way, making up for lost time, he found himself in the valley as the sun was setting.

From here he could see the wagon clearly. It was now climbing the slope of the far hills. In the still evening air, he could hear the tramp of the horses' hooves, and the creaking of the wagon wheels, and the thin high cry of the driver urging on the weary horses: "Tuk-tuk-tuk!"

He was so focused on his prey that he barely noticed the curious features of the valley through which he was passing. It was dominated by a soaring massif called the Scar, a lone crag whose sheer sides rose up from the sandy ground like a castle in the sea. Beyond the Scar stood hundreds of towering sandstone tines, jagged needles of rock, which cast before them long shadows, bruise blue on the hot amber of the desert land. Seeker strode on, now lost in the shadow of one of these natural columns, now emerging suddenly golden into the slanting sunlight, throwing before him like an avenging arm his own long purple shadow.

As the setting sun touched the ridge of the Scar, some instinct told Seeker to pause and look back. The sun's final descent was rapid. The burning disc dwindled to a dome, a streak, a gleam, and it was gone. Then all at once a spark sprang to life on the upper wall of the Scar, and without warning, a shaft of brilliant light streamed out over the valley. There followed another and another, and then a curtain of light burst through a narrow cut in the crag. As the angle of the sun's rays changed second by second, so the beams of light came and went, and the Scar glittered like a colossal lantern. Cracks and fissures in the sandstone, invisible to the eye of the traveller, were penetrated by the brilliant light and turned into lancets of crimson and gold. The long beams lit up the tines in the valley, picking out one here, one there, as the rest of the land slipped into soft twilight.

Seeker saw the streams of dazzling light and was overwhelmed with awe. The crag was glowing as if it were alive. Only a trick of the setting sun, but all at once the whole world was charged with light. At any moment now, it seemed to him, the very earth on which he stood might shiver and crack and send forth from its secret depths rays of glory, as if it were a second sun.

What is this place? I must come back.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the dazzling display was over. The sun sank below the mountain horizon, and darkness flowed over the valley like sleep.

Seeker set off again, moving more rapidly now to make up for lost time. The wagon was out of sight over the crest of the hill. Beyond the line of hills lay the plains; beyond the plains, the great forest. Somewhere between here and there he would meet the savanters for one last time.

Then it would be over.

M
ORNING
S
TAR LAY ON HER BACK ON THE WARM EARTH
and gazed up at the sky. Not a cloud broke the blazing blue of the summer morning. The branch of a tree overhead shielded her from the burn of the sun; its leaves stunted and already beginning to wither. No rain had fallen for six months. Even the grass was dying.

I must tell him, she thought to herself.

She heard shouts from the river below and, turning her head, looked down the bank to the cluster of men and boys gathered there. Two were standing ankle deep in the brown water, one with his head bowed, the other wielding a razor. As she watched she saw the razor slick neatly over the bowed head, and the last thick hank of hair plop into the water.

"Now get your stripes," said the man with the razor.

The shaved man looked up, grinning, uncertain, and felt his bare scalp with both hands. Morning Star was struck by a deep sadness. Now this youth would have his head and face and neck painted with black-and-yellow stripes, and the Tigers would be one man stronger. Already they formed the biggest single band in the spiker army.

I must tell him today.

He wouldn't believe her, but still she must tell him. He was in danger. But when she told him, what would he do? What could he do? The Wildman's sudden rages had grown more frequent in recent months, and he could be murderous when roused. Only she could restrain him. Only she had some degree of influence over him, and even that was waning.

No time to lose. Go to him now.

Morning Star rose to her feet and turned towards the great camp. Every day it grew bigger. New bands of spikers came from far and wide, drawn by the Wildman's ever-growing prestige, and pitched their tents and threw up makeshift shanties. They dug fire pits and latrines, tethered their bullocks, and set their children loose to run about the alleyways. No one knew any more how large the spiker army had become; but it covered the land all the way from Spikertown to the swamps.

She walked back down the packed earth of the camp's main street, passing a platoon of armed men loping out to one of the training grounds. As they went by, red-faced and sweating, a gaggle of small boys punched the air and cried, "Wild
man
! Wild
man
! Wild
man
!"

So much training. So much cheering. What else could an army do when there was no enemy left to fight?

Turn in on itself, thought Morning Star. Fight itself.

A scarfed woman came out of a tent and ran to overtake her. She tugged at her sleeve.

"Little mother, help me. My husband's a good man, but he beats me. When he's drunk, he beats me."

She drew back the scarf and showed the bruises on her face.

"One day he'll kill me, little mother," she whispered. "But he's a good man."

Morning Star touched the woman's wounded cheek.

"Tell him I'm watching," she said. "Tell him I see everything he does."

"Oh, I will, little mother!" The woman was filled with joy. "He won't hurt me while you're watching! Oh, thank you, thank you!"

Morning Star continued on her way. She no longer tried to tell the people that she was no different from them. It had begun with the Wildman, who called her "the spirit of the spikers." From there the rumors had multiplied. Now she was looked on with reverence, as something between a lucky charm and a god.

A band of Tigers was approaching. They walked with an easy roll of the hips, filling the roadway from side to side, so that she had to step out of the way to let them pass. They looked about them with bold, insolent stares, inviting challenge. Their colors were easy to read. They wanted action.

Ahead she saw the high canopies of the command tent; not so much a tent as a long open-sided space formed by rows of poles, over which were stretched sailcloth awnings.
In this shade, on benches or on cushions among tables and water vats, gathered the chiefs of the spiker army. Here she would find the Wildman, each day quieter than the last, moving more slowly, speaking more softly, his gaze taking in everything and nothing. He was still wild, still beautiful, still unpredictable in his anger; but these days he felt so far away.

Now, she promised herself. Tell him now.

Snakey was prowling up and down, his eyes bright in his striped black-and-yellow face, stabbing the air with his hands.

"March on Radiance! What's to stop us?"

"What do we want with Radiance?"

The Wildman lay stretched out on the ground, his back supported by a mound of cushions. He was eating nuts from a bowl by his side, cracking them with his teeth, dropping the shells into a growing pile on the dry earth floor.

"Spiker rule!" exclaimed Snakey. "Spiker power!"

A growl of assent sounded from the Tigers gathered behind him.

"You want to rule Radiance, Snakey?"

Snakey stopped prowling and turned on his friend.

"You got an army here, Chick. Lot of itchy blades. Lot of hungry mouths. How long do we sit here and cook in the sun?"

"Till I say we go."

"Used to be you were the one in front and the rest of us running to keep up."

"No call for running till you know where you want to go."

The Wildman's slow speech frustrated Snakey. He squatted down before him and boxed his friend's arms with light jabs of his fists. He was only playing. He wanted true attention.

"Don't matter where we go," he said. "Let's go! Let's move!" He stabbed one hand at the bright light of the street. "Look out there! The women are planting corn between the tents. We're turning into farmers!"

The Tigers laughed at that. Farmers were soft, peaceable, helpless. Their only purpose was to grow food for spikers to rob.

"We go when I say we go," said the Wildman.

Snakey sprang up at that, offended, and strode off. His men followed. The Wildman didn't seem to notice that they'd gone.

Morning Star met Snakey on his way out as she entered the command tent.

"Heya, Star," said Snakey.

"Heya, Snakey."

"Wake him up for me." Snakey nodded back towards the Wildman. "Too hot to be doing nothing."

Morning Star dipped herself a cup of water from one of the vats. The Wildman lay on his cushions and cracked nuts and gazed at nothing.

Now, said Morning Star to herself. Now.

"I was down by the river," she said.

The Wildman went on cracking nuts.

"Watched the boys shaving heads, painting faces."

Still he didn't turn to look at her. But he was listening.

"Someone has to say it," she said.

"What?"

"Too many Tigers, Wildman. Can't go on like this."

"Don't see why not."

"Yes, you do."

He put another nut in his mouth and cracked it and spat out the shell. He did it all slowly, as if in a dream. So Morning Star found the courage to say what she knew, so that he would wake up.

"He means to kill you," she said.

He turned to her with empty eyes.

"Who?"

"Snakey."

"Snakey?" he said. "No. You're wrong there, Star."

"I can see his colors," she said, speaking low. "I'm not wrong. He's going to kill you."

"No," said the Wildman, shaking his head. "Snakey won't kill me. Snakey loves me."

Suddenly he woke from his dream and his eyes flashed with anger.

"Why do you say that? What's Snakey ever done to you? Are you jealous?"

"No, no—"

"You want me to have no friends but you?"

"No—"

"You want to have no one love me but you?"

This was far worse than anything she had prepared herself to face. His words wounded her and shamed her. She turned away, unable to speak.

"Snakey watched over me when I was five years old!" Now he was shouting, out of control. "Snakey was father and mother to me! Snakey saved my life every single day! What have you ever done for me?"