The wilderlands, p.2
The Wilderlands, page 2
The two men trotted camp-ward and Mamma Moon watched their silent march. She had watched the two of them in the past, but that night marked the last time she would watch them walk like this. The silence that went with them was the comfortable kind that also moves with brothers standing over a spring kill, the kind that comes from clutching lovers hanging on the brink of sleep.
The kind of silence few speak of.
The two wandered back to the tent they shared—neither of them talking, neither of them having words that could muster more than less. After they were stripped down to nothing but bloodied flesh they dropped to dreaming.
It’s said there’s no sleep as deep as death, but when Knalc’s lids closed each night he managed to get closer and closer to that great deep and still wake, and this night was no different. He was pulled from dreams the next morning by the screaming of his name, “Knalc!” shouted deep and guttural.
He opened his eyes and was blinded by daylight. He howled, “What?”
The light retreated as the tent flap closed. The world came back to Knalc in pieces as he puzzled out his guest.
“Damn you, Radruk!” Knalc stood, tugging on clothes. Giemar had already long left. “That’s a good day ruined by waking up to your ugly face!”
Of all the heroes and whoresons you hear of—Alelex Who-Killed-The-World, Jundun Who-Slew-Seven, Thrandrun and Dooa—Radruk Who-Killed-His-Wife is one of the few who ain’t never been drawn. As it’s told by most, it wasn’t his face, but the stink of his soul that left folks sour. It was the kind of wretched scent a mother wouldn’t suffer to live unless her scent was twice as rotted, or unless her soul was so sweet it blotted the smell of his.
“I’m here about that girl you found last night,” Radruk reeked.
“What about her?”
“As Giemar tells it, you forfeit all right to her. True?”
“True as breath.”
“Good. Clothe yourself and come with me.”
He was mostly sword-buckled as Radruk said this. All that was left was for him to pull his coywolf-skin cloak over his shoulders and smell the yester-scent of smoke and death clinging to it as he followed Radruk from the tent.
The camp was alive as any you’ve ever seen. More so. In those times the Wilderfolk were sparse and hard, and the Khar were iron strong. Not even the Quyn would have tromped through their territory; they might have hesitated to even pick at their discarded bones. The morning after a raid, the camp still bubbled with the revelries of night which had not died at dawn. Men and women belched laughter and fogged the memory of the night before with the pleasures of flesh and flagon.
Knalc did his best to ignore their hulubulub, trying to dispel dreams he couldn’t recall. “We’re going to see the girl?”
“Eh, yeah.”
“Why?”
Radruk peered over his quickhatch-hide cloaked shoulder at Knalc. “Since you will not, I am claiming the girl. You speak Valforian. I need you to tell her that she is to be my bride-wife.”
Knalc knew Radruk well and asked, “Is she to be treated as well as your last wife?”
“That’s not a thing for you to mind.”
Knalc walked a little faster. His innards felt something already gnawing at them. The prison tent began to loom. By the time they walked past the two guards at the tent mouth, Knalc felt a fearful bead of sweat running down his neck.
Inside the tent, twelve wooden poles as thick as Knalc’s arm sprouted from the ground. A prisoner rested at the base of each pole; more than half were women—like as not, helpmates to be—a few were soldiers, strong of back, and if their wills were made of flimsome stuff they would make good workers. Nearly all were unconscious, and those who weren’t were rattled by the agony of things missing and lost.
The girl and her brother were the only two children—unconscious. Radruk led Knalc to them and urged his clan-mate speak.
A hood of brown hair shrouded the girl’s face. The bonds around her wrists were all that kept her upright on her knees. Her breathing whispered that she was alive and hinted she was sleeping better than she should have been.
“Well,” Radruk said. “Wake her up. I’ll talk, you translate.”
Knalc glared at Radruk before muttering vague obscenities and giving the girl a rousing shake.
A parched groan creaked from her. Achingly, she righted herself. Hair fell away and she looked about the tent with fear-baked confusion. Boney muscles fought against her bonds. When struggling did nothing, she roared, a chapped and cracked sound. When she spotted her brother unconscious on the neighboring pole, she howled louder.
“Tell her I am Radruk and I welcome her to the Khar tribe.”
“You don’t want to ask her name?”
“We’re getting married; we’ve got time to get to know one another. Relay my message.”
Knalc cleared his throat, recalling Valforian flavor. “Greetings.”
His single word crushed her shouts and called her gaze to him. Her mouth opened and closed, preparing a fresh scream which froze in its conception as recognition rampaged through her.
Harsh relaxation followed. A silence crueler than child-screams bore to him her anger’s brunt.
He continued. “I am Knalc. This is Radruk. Welcome to the tribe Khar.”
“Murderer.”
“What did she say?”
“Good morning.”
“Tell her that I will see to it that she is taken out of bondage before the sun has set.”
“I have been told to tell you that you will not be here for long.”
Fumes sputtered from her muscles, flexing and loosening in measured madness against her ropes.
“What did she say?” Radruk asked again.
“She didn’t say anything, you deaf idiot!” Knalc snarled.
“Then translate it again, this time in a way she can understand!”
“I … assure you, you will be leaving soon.”
“You killed her.”
Knalc showed Radruk his hand and offered answer before a question could be asked. “She said she’s eager to leave.”
Radruk flashed a yellow smile. “Good. Tell her that we will be married tonight.”
“My ‘friend’ wants me to tell you that—”
“I’m going to kill you.”
Knalc faltered. Next to him the girl was swaddling sized. Yet, when he looked at her, the chest-chewing feeling of the night before returned.
At his hesitation, her lips went scythe-like. “You killed my mother. The second I am free, I am going to kill you.” A stray tear punctuated her pale cheek.
He was unsure if he should laugh or leave, roar or repent, collapse or kill. It was a moment before he recognized the tone the girl used. It was one he’d heard before, one he’d once used himself. It was a tone used to make a promise.
“Well?” Radruk’s voice cut through a flood of thoughts. “Did you tell her?”
“Change of plans,” Knalc said. “I’ve decided to claim the girl myself.”
Any prisoners that might have been bent to sleep were roused as Radruk took to cursing. If those Valforians could have understood what Radruk was saying, the weight and whine of his spite tinged tantrum would have beaten them back to unconsciousness. As it was, they were left to wake and scowl and groan and wince.
Knalc though, who knew the ill-wrought temper of his clan-kin’s cadence, had already shut his ears and set to marching from that tent. Loathsome to be ignored, Radruk raged right behind him, leaving the Valforians bound and alone.
Though mutters and cries and prayers poured through those there, the girl just stared with silent anger in the wake of the two Wilderfolk. It was only once those beasts had left the tent that she allowed an unblinking trickle of tears to wash her cheeks. It was only once she was sure Knalc and Radruk were lost to hearing that she let a shriek-scream rend her throat. Grief-grabbed, she struggled savagesome against her ropes and they burned her for it. That burning loosed more tears.
“Bastards!” She screamed. “Heathen hellspawn! Damn you!”
Behind her, she could feel her brother, bound to the same pole, beginning to shake in fear and sorrow. She stilled herself at once and twisted to try to see him without reward.
At the tremor of his touch, her hatred cooled.
“Shhh, hey,” she whispered sweet lies to him. “It’s all right. It’s all going to be okay. I’m sorry I yell. Are you hurt?”
She heard a single sniffle from her word-wanting sibling, which could have meant “yes.”
“Are you hurt badly?”
Two sniffles seemed to mean “no.”
She moved her hands to squeeze his wrist, the most comfort she could cobble.
It was then, voice as broken as his arm, that Red called out to the girl. “What about you? Are you okay?”
The broken man—ragged and blooded—was tied nearby, bound differently to most of the Valforians in that tent. He sat alone, a rope wrapped many times around his chest so that his back was propped up against the tent pole. Compared to his kin, he was comfort-captive, bound in such a way that a man with both his working arms could break from easy-like.
She stared at him for a long time, silent at first because she was unsure of how to react. Once she’d rattled an answer from her buzzing brain, she stayed silent to scold his witless-wondering.
He measured her meaning clear and put some use into his next ask.
“Have you seen your mother?”
This time when her silence came it wasn’t scoldsome or smoldering. This time the silence—and the tears falling from her face with it—acted as answer.
Arm broken and bound by enemy monsters, the dread that had seeded in Red’s heart the night before was watered by her quiet. The dread sprouted wicked and weedrooted as he drank in the sight of the girl’s tears.
“How—” his voice was cracked as dead earth. “How did she die?”
Dull anger prompted the girl to try to wipe the tears from her face, shameful that such a man as Red would witness her crying for her mother.
“I don’t know,” she hung her head. “But the same monster that broke your arm had her knife. It’s what he tried to kill you with.”
“That … that doesn’t mean she’s dead.” Red haggled with his heartache. “She might have dropped it. The Wildman might have found it. She could—”
“She would not. Lose. That! Knife!” She pulled again on her ropes, devouring the pain it caused. “That knife was given to her by her mother who received it from her mother before her! It’s with that blade she taught me how to defend myself on the streets of Illmiv should the need arise. That knife was her last resort. Look around! Do you see her in this tent? I do not! But I did see her steel stolen by a mad man! You failed! You were supposed to protect us—to protect her! If she is dead, you ought to have gone cold before her. You failed your one job!”
As she hit the height of her shouting, the tent turned quiet as the few prisoners whose ears weren’t clogged with sorrow listened.
“We’ve all lost, girl.” Said one voice.
Said another, “Your mother, bless her soul, was one of the lucky ones.”
Behind her, she could tell her brother had gone wholly to weeping while trying to hide it from her. Red was sniffling now, but he could use his voice so there was no meaning to be sifted from the sound.
In quick-time, Red found his words again. “Did your mother ever teach you how to handle yourself if you found a rope around your wrists?”
“No,” her words were bitter as yarrow. “But you did.”
“Did I?” He asked, maybe more of himself. “I suppose it’s the same lesson learned either way. Do you remember what you were taught?”
“I do.”
“Can you free yourself from the ropes then?”
For the first time, the girl pulled at her bindings with measured method.
She had done as she had been taught long ago without even meaning to, the lesson lingering in her soul. As she was tied, she’d kept as much space as she could atween her wrists. Most Wilderfolk know battle and blood better than binding, so even many of those who know their knots don’t bother to tarry in their tying. Wiser now in her wriggling, she felt the rub of freedom in the ropes.
“I can,” she said and set to steady work.
As she did, she thought of breaking loose and leaving Red to rot. Of running off with her brother and taking to the Wilderlands. Though sadness clutched her at leaving the other prisoners to the Wilderfolk, she knew they would be more noisome than necessary in the wild places of the world. Even those who might prove their worth in the Wilderlands would just draw more attention. Best to keep the escapees as few as possible, make it not worth risking going after two when ten or more were still secure.
Red must have guessed at her thoughts because before those musings could turn to mission, he said, “Remember to break me free once you’re loose. I may not have my arm, but I can still be of use. I’ve been through the Wilderlands before.”
Had he not been right, she would have left him to die just for saying such.
Those of you who lend your ear often to tellings in our halls know this to be true: tellers lie more than anyone else.
That’s because they talk more than anyone else, changing tellings a touch each time; eventually a cloud-grey evening dampened by drizzle gets turned to a sky-cracking night drowned in rain and blasted black.
I’ll confess to some stretching myself. Most are minor morsels. A slab of meat sounds better than a sliver, a shout hits the ear better than a simple saying, a quick death cuts deeper than a dragged and dreary plucking of soul from frail flesh. If you’ve heard me sing of the Great Stone-Licker, I’ve changed the tooth count of that horrid beast in my every telling—not just because ninety-nine might sound better one night and a hundred-hundred be better the next, but because I’m one of few who’s had the chance to count the creator’s horrid teeth and couldn’t sure-say what the number is. Though I know that ninety-nine might as well be a hundred-hundred to the sorry soul caught in the chomping.
If you’ve heard other stories about Gor Gamak, you might have heard how, at fourteen, he slew a silver tip while wandering south. You would have heard about how he once stormed a Valforian caravan single-handed. You would certainly have heard about his lost left eye that was wizard-blasted before he berzerked and broke upon his knee the wizard’s staff and spine in turn.
Tellers are a dishonest bunch who trade in mountain-made lies, but there’s some stories we can’t stack higher than they are.
I met Gor Gamak once, not long before he was honor-beckoned to the woods in his Death Walk. When I met him, he was old and had already crumbled beneath the rubble of his life. When Knalc and Radruk stood before him though, he was old, yes, and only half the highsome-worth of his youth, but that still made him more than near any other Gor from here to Hillwoe.
With patience, he sat on his throne of bones—made of the royal remains of every Kharian Gor before him—and listened to Radruk shout and spit in hair-tearing anger.
“This hellspit liar swore away his claim to the Valfling. But now, seeing her close-like, he’s decided he wants to get pretty with her. He breaks bone and vow in kind, and men who care not for word nor blood in any part are as good as hungry coywolves waiting for us to go fat in trust. I say we turn the mutt loose into the Wilderlands where he can rave and foam with his own kind, where he won’t eye the food of other men with hunger-lust. If we would let him have his way, he’d sleep-slay you, take your throne, and neglect to honor your bones their sacred right. He is toothless in his oaths and has too many teeth in his day-to-day dealings, he gives his word only after he has cut you gutless. He would kiss your cheek only so he was close enough to gnaw you bloody.”
Gor Gamak trained his single eye on Knalc. “What do you say to your clan-mate’s accusation, Knalc?”
“I got no notion to kiss your cheek.”
“And all else?”
“Any truth he said, he said in shreds.”
Radruk roared. “Lies! I asked him if he had forsaken his claim and he told me he did. ‘True as breath,’ he said unto me. ‘True as breath,’ exactly! Yet, sore as it makes my eyes, he still breathes!”
“Your say, Knalc?”
Now, Knalc wasn’t one for wit or whimsies, but what words he had he knew well enough, and those he said he knew better still. “Ay, I did say ‘true as breath.’ But what Radruk says he asked ain’t what he asked.”
“See! Even now he is baseless and word warping! He—”
The Gor held up a hand and held Radruk in his eye. “Let him tell it, or I’ll hear no more of you.”
Radruk sewed up his face with a scowl and went silent.
Knalc continued. “What Radruk asked me wasn’t whether I forfeit my claim, but whether Giemar told him I did. When he asked me that, I said he told it true.”
Radruk started to bubble, but Gor Gamak held high his hand again to keep him from boiling over. “Then tell us, Knalc. Why would Giemar say this?”
“I told Giemar I was thinking I might swear off the two. He must’ve misunderstood me and told Radruk it was a certain thing.”
“You two-tongued traitor!” The other curses Radruk spewed ain’t fit to be spoken out again. Some say that Death himself was brought to blush by his cussing, and that when Radruk died he suffered twice what he should have—that’s all tellers’ stacking though, since any soul to walk near Death knows he has neither shame nor courtesy, and you need both to blush.
All the blushing that happened then was under the beards of Knalc and the Gor, until the Gor could mind Radruk’s ramble-rave no more and slammed a fist on his marrow throne. “Enough! We’ll settle this easy-like now. Knalc never said to me nor you, Radruk, that he was forsaking claim. So Knalc, tell us now and here, true to breath—do you lay claim to the Valflings?”
