The Ancient Enemy (26 page)

It gave a small cry, and as he withdrew it, collapsed with a cough that sent blood spattering over Rukkh's shield.

Rukkh looked about the small room, then tore open another hide door and looked into a larger space, lit by three oil lamps. On the floors and walls were brilliantly colored mats and rugs. Designs featuring unmistakable images, one of some insects patterned with what looked like chickens was very clear. Furniture of polished brown wood and walls painted creamy white completed the room. Hide doors led off in both directions to other rooms. A large green pot stood against one wall. Shelves filled with other pots and beakers lined another. It was a two-story dwelling; steps led up to the upper floor.

Rukkh was shocked. The priests had not mentioned anything of this finery. The monkeys appeared to live well.

Not for long,
he thought with a grim chuckle. They made good meat. He turned and, dismissing the view from his mind, ducked back out to the narrow street.

The fighting had dispersed, although he could hear shouts, commands from Cauta, and the sound of something smashing not far away.

He hurried in that direction.

Mugutta was lying at a crossroads with an arrow sticking up from his right eye. Farther on there was a man sitting on the small stoop of a single-story house with his own spear thrust through him.

Rukkh heard someone coming down the nearest alley and positioned himself perfectly. The young monkey came hurtling by and he ran it through with a clean blow and dropped it to the ground. It writhed until he thrust down again to end it.

The remaining monkeys were running up the lanes, and the men from the other pincer were approaching.

"Glory to the Great God!" shouted Muka, the captain of the other force.

"He Who Eats blesses us!" replied Cauta.

The place was theirs.

They ran from Harfield, heading inland, trying to keep from blind panic. Fear pounded in their hearts, terror ate at their souls.

They had fought Man, and they had lost. They had seen steel cutting flesh, spears running through mot chests, arrows sprouting suddenly from eyes and throats. They had tried everything, but despite all their planning and their courage they had not been able to keep the bigger, more experienced men from storming the barricades and taking their home.

In the process, dozens of mots had died and many more were wounded to one degree or another. Thru Gillo was one of them, cut on his thigh, cut on his face and the side of his head, bruised on the right side of the chest and all down his legs.

Thru had gone chest to chest with a man who'd snarled and spat at him and swung a heavy sword that Thru had parried, but only just. The man had a shield, and it made the fight unequal, and so Thru was forced to give ground. He parried another stroke, but the shield sent him stumbling back and exposed him to a killing thrust.

Toshak had saved him, whirling up the barricade with a sharp cry, his sword a flashing arc of steel that slit the man's belly under the edge of his armor.

Thru had taken the man's shield. It was strong but surprisingly light, a wooden frame wrapped in wicker and covered in leather. There were knobs of stone sunk into the leather every inch or so. Thru didn't know the finer points of wielding a shield, however, and the next man almost knocked him off his feet when they clashed atop the barricade and he hooked his shield inside Thru's and jerked him forward.

After that the fighting became a blur. He remembered scattered moments. A swordsman in front, trying a kick. Thru instinctively dropped the edge of the shield down on the man's shin and he backed off with a howl. A spearman charging in, tripping on the barricade, and falling facefirst. A huge man using his shield to hurl a mot right off the top of the barricade. The moment when in the press of bodies Thru drove his own sword into a man's belly. The shock of seeing the blade vanish, the moment of killing another being, had stunned him for a moment.

More men came up into the press at the top of the barricade. The mot line could not hold them. They broke, mots falling, others tumbling back off the barricade. Then Thru was in the street, off the barricade and fighting with a man wearing a helmet topped by a red crest. Another mot pressed in and the red crest was forced to turn his attention to him. Thru hacked at the man's side, his sword cut in above the hip.

The last glimpse he had of the red crest was of the helmet, spinning on the cobblestones. By then he was swinging furiously back at another swordsman several houses farther down.

The fighting continued back through the village. Thru saw Toshak kill another man, this time with a reverse spin and a slicing stroke that cut the throat. Somewhere in the fighting, Thru took a heavy blow in the ribs, although he couldn't say exactly when or how.

But over and above everything was the new knowledge. He had killed men and he had learned to fear them.

They ran up the lane through the polder, across a field and into the woods. He'd lost his bow, but he still had his quiver and a few steel points. His sword arm felt leaden, exhausted.

The moon reappeared from behind the clouds. The smell of smoke grew suddenly much stronger. The village was burning. They came to Skanels crossing, where a rickety bridge spanned a fierce little stream. There they caught up with the mors and children, who had fled the village the moment the first light flared from the headland.

Thru waited anxiously by the rocks, looking back down the road. The men did not seem to be pursuing them, but Thru wanted to be sure.

Mors and children wept uncontrollably when they discovered that their husbands and fathers would not be coming. There were dozens of dead left behind.

A column of chooks had joined the main party, and the soft clucking of mother chooks to the chicks formed an undertone to the weeping of inconsolable children and wives.

Nuza joined him. She had been shepherding several old grannies, who had set out earlier and made it that far the previous day.

"Thru!" She wrapped her arms around him. There was fear in her eyes. "But you're hurt, there's blood all over..." Her voice dropped away as she saw the long cut on the side of his head.

"I'm all right, I'll survive."

"Oh, Thru, thank the Spirit!"

The feel of her body against him was a primal source of warmth. The chill in his heart subsided a little.

"Nuza, Nuza, Nuza." He rocked from side to side to comfort himself, or perhaps both of them. His side hurt.

"Are they coming?" she said to him.

"None that I can see."

"What happened? What were they like?"

He swallowed, wiped sweat, blood, and dirt from his face.

"They are terrible! Stronger and bigger than we, but we can kill them! Toshak was tremendous. He made them pay a price, and he saved my life, I know that."

Toshak had stayed back with a few mots to slow down the men if they came on in pursuit.

There were bright flames down by the shore, flickering beyond the dark mass of the forest. The refugees clung to each other, each shivering a little at the distant red light.

"They intend to kill us all," said Nuza in a toneless, quiet voice.

Thru heard her and could make no reply. It was true. He had seen the face of Man the Cruel, Man the wearer of the red crest, Man with the insane eyes filled with hatred as he came on with his sword and his spear.

"They broke our line. We couldn't stop them. They were too skilled for us."

It was exactly as they'd feared it might be.

"Where is Toshak?" she said after a moment.

Then Toshak arrived with six weary-looking mots who had bows over their shoulders. They'd come in from the side trail that led up more directly from the shore, but was steep in places and rocky in others.

Toshak was burdened with half a dozen belts over his shoulder, scabbards and swords on his back. He handed Thru a bow. With astonishment Thru saw that it was the bow Ware had carved for him.

"We can't afford to be without your skill with that bow, Thru Gillo."

"Thank you, Toshak."

"They aren't following now. They grew nervous after we ambushed their scouts."

"That's a mercy," said Nuza. "The old ones will be slowing down soon. They did well yesterday, but this is all a bit hard on them."

"They must still go on. Compared to the other villages they killed only a few of us. They will not be happy about that."

"We head for Uzon, that's the closest coal town. From there we can send a message to Tamf."

"It will take the children at least three days to reach Uzon. And we have little food to give them."

"The coast road is too dangerous, who knows how many of these attacks there will be?"

"Yes," Nuza conceded that point. "Uzon it will have to be. I pray that messages have been sent to Tamf to report this calamity. Without aid, we will surely all die."

The
Growler
moved gently with the sea. On the women's deck it was stifling and hot; Simona wore no more than a shift. Puty and Panala lolled in their hammocks, unable to so much as move.

Simona couldn't stand hanging there listening to them gossip about the love affairs that were thought to be going on between various girls. There was a certain amount of homosexuality on the deck, and in these conditions it had grown considerably.

Instead, Simona prowled on the outer aisle. Sometimes one of the older women would leave a porthole for a while to sleep. Then came occasional opportunities for someone like Simona to grab a few moments of precious air and light before she'd be pulled away by the rightful owner of second place on the line.

There was a sour mood aboard the
Growler
. The haul from the raid had been very disappointing. There had barely been enough meat to feed the ship and none to give to other ships, from whom the
Growler
had taken plenty from previous raids. The
Growler's
captain and crew lost status within the fleet. The warriors aboard the ship faced humiliation when next they met their fellows.

Captain Shuzt had been testy and upset. His last visit to the women's deck had been marked by a screaming bout with his wife that ended in blows and the captain storming out in a fury.

The whole women's deck had its ration cut the next day by a biscuit. This did nothing but focus more resentment upon Vli Shuzt. The women's deck was a hungry deck and had been for many months.

In all the general misery, Simona had one slender shaft of hope. Twice more she had seen Rukkh. He sought her out whenever he was sent down to the women's deck. When he found her he simply looked at her with smoldering eyes. She could feel his desire, exciting her on a most primal level. At the same time she knew that he was from a peasant background. He might be illiterate, certainly uneducated compared to her.

For some odd reason, that did not matter. It was something just to be looked at like that, just to be desired. Her spirit had sagged under the weight of eleven rejections. She knew deep down somewhere that she was not worthless, but when everyone else thought she was it began to rub off. Especially when living in such close proximity with so many other haughty women. "Red-mark girl" had been permanently scarred on her psyche on this voyage in hell.

Indeed, many of the women were wondering why Simona had not been sold down to the whores' deck. She was the unproductive daughter of a questionable marriage by an unstable Gsekk female. That was virtually the profile of the higher-class whores: unlucky younger daughters who could not be wed, or whose fathers died young. They did not understand why Filek, himself under pressure, did not sell the girl and use the proceeds to ingratiate himself with the priests. Filek, however, was not that kind of father. He loved his daughter as much as he loved his wife, and he had promised them that he would always protect them from that sort of horror. Chiknulba swore to protect her, too, but Simona knew her mother was weak, and would not be able to stop other Gsekks from casting Simona out if they could. Filek was her lifeline, until she married. Then she would be safe within the confines of matrimony.

She had to marry beneath herself, it was all there was left. And here was this Rukkh, who came to stare at her every opportunity and exhibit his need for her.

Alas, Filek had not been receptive to her wishes.

"He is nothing but a peasant."

"I know, Father, but we are going into the New Land. Property in the old world is meaningless here."

"Do not say that, my darling. All status and hierarchy depend on our name from the old world. Without it we would be submerged in the common ruck!"

Simona could hear the enormous fear and the loathing in her father's voice. She sympathized. If she could have had her wishes, she would have gone back to her old life at once. But such wishes were worse than useless.

"Father, we must also be flexible. If I am not wed, I will be vulnerable. Unless you can protect me, I will be sold as a whore."

"Ah, my sweet Simona, do not say such horrible things. You will be wed, my dearest, but to a fine man of good blood. This peasant soldier is scarcely a citizen of Shasht at all."

"Nor are we, Daddy. We are citizens of the new world."

"Hush, you must never say such things. That could easily be taken the wrong way and construed as treason against the Emperor."

Simona put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh! I meant no such thing." She looked around anxiously; no one appeared to be listening to them. She hadn't been loud. No one was loud on the women's deck, unless she wanted her business spread far and wide on the gossip circuit.

Filek looked her in the eye.

"Now, no more on this subject. I do not wish to discuss it."

"Yes, Father." Simona knew when to give in.

Later Filek and Chiknulba coupled behind a sheet in the common lust bunk for that section. Several other couples had already used it, and it stank. Chiknulba wept afterward in his arms, with her head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder, her stoicism shattered at last.

"Oh, Filek, I am so degraded by this awful business. Sometimes I just wish I were dead." She kept her voice to a tiny whisper. There were often listeners lurking outside the lust bunk, hoping to catch embarrassing revelations.