The Wordsmiths and the Warguild (34 page)

       
At sunset, all the men
escorted Togura and Namaji to a hut which had been made ready for them. He
found himself trembling as he closed the door on the outside world.

       
"Namaji."

       
"Togura."

       
They found each other in
the darkness. Togura, his hands shaking, laid rough hands on Namaji. In his
haste, he stripped her more swiftly than he should have; he heard a little rip
as fabric gave. Urgently, he grappled with her, sliding a hand straight to her
privacy, and finding -

       
Togura screamed.

       
"No no no no!"
he shouted.

       
Outside the hut, there
was a chorus of cruel, knowing laughter. The men were out there. They knew! And
what they knew was that his "she" was a "he." Namaji
touched Togura with small, gentle, seducing hands. He slapped them away. Namaji
wept.

       
"Togura," said
Namaji, pleading.

       
"No," said
Togura. "It's no good. I don't want a make-belief woman. I want the real
thing."

       
He desperately wanted,
needed, lusted for the real thing, so he could rut it under, taking what other
men wanted, thus proving his strength, sagacity, wisdom, superiority and
manhood. His ego lusted for status as much as his body lusted for the flesh.

     
  
He opened the door to the night,
finding the men without. Gleefully, they bundled him back inside. He slammed
the door on them, and swore.

       
"Togura?" said
Namaji, tremulously.

       
"No!" roared
Togura. "No! Forget it!"

       
He threw himself down in
a corner and lay there, sulking. When Namaji lay down beside him, he did not
have the heart to push her away. Nevertheless, he lay there stiffly, rejecting
her with silence. She touched him again.

       
"Namaji," said
Togura, removing her hand. "It wouldn't work."

       
"Togura?" she
said hopefully, not understanding his Galish.

       
"No," he said.
And then, using the local word: "Kal."

       
Understanding, she began
to cry again. And Togura felt ashamed with himself, and sorry for her, and, at
the same time, disgusted by her, and hated himself for being so narrow and
cruel as to be disgusted, and felt bitter, angry and outraged at being forced
into a position where he had - he felt this strongly - just had to be narrow
and cruel to be true to himself. And -

       
But there is no need to
elaborate. Suffice to say that he felt very mixed up, his emotions flickering
like a chameleon trapped in a kaleidoscope, making his mind an agony of
confusion.

       
He should be loyal to
Namaji. But she had tricked him, so he shouldn't be. But maybe she thought he
knew all along. And, after all, a warm body was a warm body. But nobody else in
the village wanted this body! But he had known that all along. But he had not
know why. But -

       
"Sod it sod it sod
it," said Togura, biting his arm viciously, trying to relieve his agony by
hurting himself.

       
And he started to weep.

       
Outside the hut, the men
started to sing a loud, vigorous song which was probably obscene; maybe they had
made it up especially to mock him. He wished he could kill them all. Kill them
and castrate them. Rape their women one by one and burn their village down to
nothing.

       
Why were people so
vicious?

       
Why was life so cruel?

       
"Why was I ever
born?" said Togura.

       
Whatever the reason for
his birth, he was sure he was not fulfilling it by lying in a mud hut weeping
for the amusement of a bunch of jabbering savages. As his sorrow began to ease,
it was replaced by a fierce, furious determination.

       
"Live free or
die," said Togura.

       
And he started making a
hole in the roof.

Chapter 31

       
When Togura finally
punched through to the starlight, he heard men outside, talking in low voices,
their conversation punctuated occasionally by laughter. Supposing that they
would eventually get bored and go away, he waited. Namaji, exhausted by
emotional trauma, fell asleep, snoring loudly. Waiting in the darkness, Togura
did mental revision, working through all the ways he knew of killing people. He
concluded, with regret, that his repertoire was rather limited.

       
He heard some men saying
their goodbyes, and, after that, no voices, no laughter. He enlarged the hole,
then hauled himself out onto the roof and dropped down into the darkness. He
stood there, listening. He heard insects cricketing away, frogs croaking in the
distance, a few muffled snores, and, far away, a horse neighing. It was a dark,
cold night, lit by starlight; there was, as yet, no moon. He could have wished
for some wind; the night was very still.

       
Togura began to slip
between the hulking shadows of the mud huts, moving lightfoot-brightfoot
through the night. Without warning, a cock crowed close at hand and close at ear:

       
"Co co rico! Co co rico!"

       
The noise was as loud as
a slap on the ear. Togura started, as if someone had sheathed a blade in his
heart. The cock crowed again.

       
"Who will rid me of
this turbulent rooster?" muttered Togura.

       
He should have known
better than to speak. His voice was low, but it set a dog to barking. Other
dogs roused to the challenge. As they barked, furiously, sleepers awakened.
Mobbed by angry shouts, Togura sprinted for the village wall. He went over it,
ran into the darkness and lay flat.

       
Togura knew there was no
point in escaping without a horse, for the village men would quarter the
country and ride him down by daylight. He had to have a mount. But there was no
point in making immediately for the horse corral, because it was guarded; no
doubt the guard would soon be reinforced. He lay quiet and still, a shadow lost
in the shadows.

       
A furious search was
soon going on. Togura heard sounds of fighting, then cries of pain from a man.
He speculated that a sentry who should have been patrolling the wall had been
caught sleeping. He heard a lot of noise from the horse corral. Men with
burning brands searched the area near the corral; someone seemed to be
searching in amongst the horses. Soon a number of mounted men were circling the
village.

       
Togura, though he was
shivering in the cold night air, did not move until all the fuss and excitement
had died down a little. Then he crept back to the village wall and followed it
round to the gates. Some men, dismounted, were standing there by their horses,
arguing. A dog barked loudly as Togura approached; a man cursed it and kicked
it to silence. Someone was urinating noisily in the darkness.

       
As humble as a
cockroach, Togura went sneaking to the nearest horsy shadow. Closing with the
animal, he ran his hands along its back, locating the saddle. He found the
nearest stirrup and got his foot in it. He found the reins, took them in hand,
then mounted.

       
"Wah-Warguild!" screamed Togura, kicking the horse.

       
His mount reared. A man
grabbed Togura's leg. Togura kicked, and was free. Screaming, he urged the
horse to a gallop. A warrior threw a spear, which missed. Still screaming,
Togura galloped away into the night. His screams, as he had intended, scattered
the other horses, giving him a decent head start.

       
Navigating by the stars,
he headed north. Once he reached the hills, he would kill the horse then trek
over the mountains back to Estar. With dismay, he realised that the moon was
rising.

       
Sooner than he had
thought, the village men managed to secure their horses and join the pursuit.
He heard their shouts and hoofbeats behind him. The rising moon betrayed him to
the night.

       
"Ride,
beauty," urged Togura, slapping the horse.

       
He galloped the horse
until it could gallop no more; fortunately, the riders behind him were having
similar problems with their own mounts. The chase continued at a steady trot.

       
Suddenly, to his dismay,
Togura realised that there were riders ahead of him. How had that happened?

       
He was still trying to
work out what to do next when the riders up ahead dispersed. They disappeared
into a little bit of hummocked land off to his left. He blinked, wondering if
they were ghosts, or if he had imagined them all along. No matter. The way
ahead was clear.

       
But behind him he heard
hastening hoofbeats, and realised the village warriors were once more trying to
close the distance. He urged his horse as best he could, but it faltered,
stumbled, then fell, throwing him. He picked himself up and remounted, but by
then it was too late. The village riders, fierce, eager, shouting, closed in
around him.

       
"Togura!"
shouted the headman.

       
The name was slurred,
but Togura knew it for his own. The next moment, the headman slapped him,
almost knocking him off the horse. Then there was an argument. Six riders had
made the distance. Some, perhaps, wanted to butcher Togura on the spot. The
headman finally mastered them to silence, then began to lead the way south. The
horses, after all this hard treatment, could only manage a walking pace; they
were not bred or fed to ride so far and so fast.

       
"Perhaps I'd better
tell you," said Togura. "I saw some other horsemen back there."

       
The headman, who did not
understand his Galish, swore at him, and slapped him again. Togura, his nose
gently bleeding, did not speak again. He had not been on horseback for ages; as
a consequence, he was now saddle-sore.

       
They were some way back
toward the village when, shadow on shadow, horses came screaming out of some
hunchbacked wasteland. Arrows sang through the air. Lances rode home. Horses
screamed, flailing down to their death. Togura urged his horse away. An enemy
rode up beside him, jumped, grabbed himround the neck and took him crashing
down to the ground. Togura felt a sickening pain in his right leg. The enemy
drew a knife and tried to stab him. Togura fought with all his strength. The
knife moved steadily, inexorably, toward his throat.

       
If Togura had been made
of sterner stuff, he would have devoted all his energies to the struggle, and
consequently would have died upon the spot. However, he didn't. He panicked
instead, and screamed:

       
"Help help
help!"

       
An enemy, whirling out
of a skirmish, heard Togura's voice, and hurled a spear in his general
direction. The spear slammed home, taking Togura's attacker fair and square
between the shoulder blades.

       
Killed by his own side,
the attacker collapsed on Togura, who, thinking him still alive, damaged him
dreadfully. Togura had just realised the man was dead when a horse, mortally
wounded, collapsed on top of him. Suffocating, he fought it. By now he had a
knfie in his hand. The horse rolled away, staggered to its feet, managed a few
steps, then dropped again and died - this time falling clear of Togura.

       
He breathed the sweet
cool night air in lurching gulps, sweating with effort, trembling with
adrenalin, his heart still doing a decathlon. Somewhere out in the night, someone
was being killed, and the sound was not pleasant. Someone, close at hand, was
groaning hideously. Togura tried to get to his feet. An agonising pain in his
right leg persuaded him against such foolishness. After a little
experimentation, he realised the leg was broken.

       
"Things are not
improving," muttered Togura.

       
Then he heard someone
walking through the night with a strange, shuffling gait. He decided it was
best to play dead. He lay there with his eyes tightly shut, listening intently.
Shuffle-foot wandered, paused, wandered, then fell heavily, and did not move
again. Slowly, Togura opened his eyes.

       
Old Scar Face, the moon,
floated above him, cool and remote. Somewhere close at hand, someone was crying
bitterly. Togura listened, carefully, and ascertained that it wasn't him.
Despite his current predicament he was, for once, dry-eyed and clear-headed.