Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Read online

  They came.

  It was the aroma of roasting meat that penetrated the arguments, the appeals, the demands for answers. They arrived en masse, men, women, and children, drawn to the meat as flies to a body. Without rising, retaining his relaxed posture, he said quietly, “There are things to be done. Do them.”

  It silenced them all a moment, until one man demanded if Brodhi intended to eat all of the deer himself.

  “There are other deer,” he replied, waving a negligent hand. “Out there.”

  A woman said, “Some of us have children to feed!”

  “Children may be depended upon to set snares,” he replied, nodding, “and to catch fish, and to gather up scraps of food that survived the storm. Food is here. Water as well; you no doubt can find a bucket or two, if you look. Possibly a barrel, which can be rolled up the path.”

  A large male body pushed through the throng. A dark, one-eyed man, speaking gruffly. “What Brodhi means is that we may depend upon ourselves to see us through this. And he is correct. There is enough here to feed ourselves over the next day or two, if we spread out and look. And those of you who were in Jorda’s karavan have foodstuffs in your wagons.”

  “And you shall share,” Jorda declared, walking up to stand beside Mikal. “We’ll have fresh meat tonight, thanks to the Shoia—” he nodded briefly in Brodhi’s direction, “—but we’ll need more. Tonight, those of you with wagons may dole out blankets to those who have none, and in the morning we all can sort out what needs doing in what order. There are enough of us that we can break up into groups. Some will fish, some will fetch water—a wagon and team can bring up a number of barrels—some make and set snares, some search for oilcloth and lost goods. Those of you from my karavan have tools and implements as well—we can break ground for gardens, for fields. Get seed in the ground. Dig up tubers. And any of you who have horses and mules that are too injured to work, speak up; we can butcher them and salt the meat, pack it away. I say don’t look at what we’ve lost, but at what we have: enough to begin anew.” His ruddy beard bristled as he looked over the gathering. “For now, while the meat cooks, I say we should gather up the dead and clean their bodies, prepare them for the dawn rites. When that is done, we’ll have fresh venison and sweet water. For tonight, thank the Mother, that is enough.”

  The karavaners were accustomed to Jorda’s air of command. Those who didn’t know him answered his tone as well. Brodhi, somewhat surprised to see that the words were accepted without argument, watched as the people counted out who should do what and began to turn to tasks. A party of men went to get shovels from wagons, while a handful of women volunteered to clean the bodies. Within a matter of moments the gathering dispersed, discussing what would come. Only Jorda remained behind.

  “Where’s Rhuan?” he asked.

  Brodhi shrugged, drawing his knife. “Not among us, apparently.”

  “You’re his kinsman, aren’t you?”

  “Alas, so I am. Not something I claim with any amount of pride. But I am not his keeper; Rhuan does as he will.”

  “He knew the storm was coming. That Alisanos was on the move. He would have saved himself.”

  “If he were not off attempting to gather up stray humans on a road very close—much too close—to Alisanos,” Brodhi observed. “And what will a karavan-master do without a guide?”

  “I have Darmuth.”

  “Do you?” Brodhi raised his brows. “Have you seen him?”

  That told. He saw the realization in Jorda’s green eyes, in the stiffening of his posture. “You know something, don’t you?”

  “I know many things, karavan-master. But the whereabouts of your guides is not one of them.” Brodhi deftly flipped his knife one-handed, end over end. “Are you so sure Rhuan would risk himself for fragile human lives?”

  “He would. He has.”

  “Ah. Well then, perhaps he is merely lost.” He caught the knife by its point and stilled its rotation, looking steadily at the karavan-master. “Surely he is lost.”

  It was clear Jorda wished to ask him more. It was equally clear the man understood he would receive no replies that were not obscure. For a moment the green eyes reflected a pure, unfettered dislike, a desire to reciprocate, then cleared of emotion. Brodhi watched him turn away, but before Jorda could leave, he rose. “Care for some venison?”

  Jorda swung back. “What I would care for,” he said tightly, “is someone to scout the borders of Alisanos nearest this place. Preferably before men, women, and children fall prey to it because they are ignorant of where the deepwood begins, and where it ends. We—”

  “No one knows where it ends.” Brodhi leaned in to test the meat with the knife’s tip.

  “Rhuan said he sensed it. That’s why he instructed us to go east.”

  Brodhi grinned. “You make a diviner of him, foreseeing things no one else can.” He sliced off a piece of meat and tested its taste.

  “You’re Shoia as well. Can you also sense such things?”

  “Not quite done,” Brodhi commented lightly as he swallowed a final bite. “Yes, I have the same kind of land-sense. And yes, I could scout the borders … except I have been given a different task.”

  “What task?”

  Brodhi resumed his position upon the ground, leaning against the elderling oak. “I’m to ride to Cardatha to see the warlord. I am to inform him of what has happened here in minute and lengthy detail, and explain how extremely likely it is that any Hecari patrols coming to this area are in serious danger of being swallowed by Alisanos.”

  Some of the anger left Jorda’s expression. “Bethid’s plan.”

  “So it is.”

  “Will it work?”

  “It may,” Brodhi flipped grease off his knife blade, “temporarily. But they will come eventually.”

  “We need to map this area,” Jorda said. “We can’t very well send people out to forage for food if they run the risk of stepping over some invisible border.”

  “It’s visible,” Brodhi said. “But it’s quite true that the borders aren’t stable just yet. Alisanos may have a few itches to scratch before it settles in for hibernation.”

  Jorda strode up to him, leaned down, loomed, and snatched the knife from his hand. “And would you happen to know in which direction those itches may lie? At least for tomorrow?”

  Brodhi contemplated the hand now empty of knife. No wounds were visible. He looked up at the karavan-master towering over him. “Go north, or east. Not west. And probably not south, though I can’t be certain of that. Land-sense has its limitations.”

  “Thank you,” Jorda said evenly. Then he snapped the knife downward so it flew point-first at the earth and buried its blade to the hilt.

  AS THE BABY sated herself, Audrun leaned her spine and skull against one of the smooth-trunked dreya trees and allowed her body respite. Now that panic had subsided and her arguments were temporarily undone, exhaustion swamped her. She ached, inside and out. Cuts stung. Her face burned. The bitten lower lip no longer bled, but her tongue kept testing the tender, lumpy swelling on the inside of her mouth. She hadn’t eaten in more hours than she could count—if Alisanos had hours—and hunger made her weak. Giving birth made her weak. Running and tripping and falling made her weak. Sitting alone in the deepwood with a newborn infant made her weak and worried and too muddled to think straight. She badly needed food, and sleep. But she needed answers just as badly.

  She closed her eyes, losing herself in the physical release that came with nursing a healthy baby. “Mother of Moons, I beg you—” But that was as far as her petition got. She was abruptly aware of movement, of sound, of an undulation in her world that brought her to her feet, pressing Sarith against her breast. The trees—

  The trees were moving. And it wasn’t caused by the wind.

  Audrun stood in the center of the ring, staring in shock. Branches lowered, interlaced, interlocked, formed a barrier. A tight net, a fence of silver boughs and limbs and leaves, encircled her. The sky wa
s open to her now, the setting of the suns; no longer was she shielded against the blinding light. Audrun looked away, looked down, blinking dazzled eyes. Sarith, deprived of a nipple, began to cry.

  Absently Audrun tugged up smallclothes and tunic to cover herself. On the other side of the barrier, from behind her back, she heard words she understood. Words in Sancorran. “Give it to me.”

  She spun. A man—a man—stood there, staring fixedly through breaks in limbs and leaves. Staring at the child.

  She summoned her voice. “I will do no such thing.”

  “Give it to me.”

  With equal vehemence, Audrun said, “I will not.”

  The man came closer. She saw now that he wore loose dark leggings made of some kind of hide and a misshapen jacket hanging open crookedly so that his naked chest was visible from belly to throat. His flesh was very white, a stark contrast to the dark discoloration that climbed from the low waistband of his leggings. He looked human. He looked, and sounded, Sancorran.

  “Who are you?” Audrun asked.

  He made no answer, but came a step closer. She saw his chest more clearly, and its deep bruising.

  No, not bruising. Not discoloration.

  Scales.

  “Give it to me.”

  Audrun didn’t answer.

  He came a step closer. She saw now that his hair, too, was black, hanging well past his shoulders. Amazingly, it was combed. Astonishingly, it was clean. It fell in a shining curtain, parted only at his face. And in that white, white face burned piercing winter-gray eyes with slit, vertical pupils.

  Definitely not a man.

  “No,” Audrun repeated, finding in that declaration and determination a modicum of strength.

  He squatted suddenly, elbows hooked over knees. She saw his spine was also misshapen, deformed, as if he were hunchbacked. She had seen that in an elderly woman, once. But he was male, if not precisely a man.

  Pale hands fluttered. His nails, long and curved, were black. Clawlike. The backs of his pale hands were also scaled. His head rotated sideways, back and forth. Then he sprang upward into the air, and Audrun saw that he was not hunchbacked at all. That in fact he was winged.

  Winged.

  Overhead, the tree canopy snapped together. Branch, stem, and leaf wove a shield against him.

  ELLICA REMEMBERED SNEAKING in the midst of the night out of the house her father had built. She recalled how and where the floorboards creaked and squeaked, and how carefully and how slowly one stepped to avoid such things. Barefoot in childhood, she felt the roughness of the planed boards, felt the narrow gap between each, the depressions and slight lumps where pegs had been pounded in. Her da was a considerate man who wanted the best for his family. Occasionally the wood and best of intentions did not cooperate.

  She crept now as she had then, step by step, alert to sentient grass that might attempt to impose itself again, growing up this time through the soles of her shoes. Step, step, step. As a child, the only risk had been that her da might hear, or her mam. Now, in the deepwood, Ellica knew worse than that awaited.

  She paused. More than grass threatened; she saw briars, thorny vines, and tree limbs, all of them aquiver, as if waiting to attack. She felt the breath of the deepwood upon her: too warm, too wet, too intimate. Her body ran with sweat. It burned in her eyes.

  Keep moving … keep moving …

  She had no goal, no destination, except perhaps to find who’d screamed, if that were possible; if Alisanos allowed it. Human, she was sure. Perhaps not her da. Perhaps not her brother. But human. She was certain.

  “Keep moving,” she murmured.

  Vines grew upward, vines grew downward. She avoided every stem, every thorn. She ducked beneath branches, slid around leaves, kept her skirts pulled tight. When the way she sought was too overgrown for her to manage, she went in another. But her memory was sound. She recalled from which direction the screaming had issued.

  Perhaps not her da. Perhaps not her brother. In a way, she hoped not. And yet she hoped it might be, that it could be, so she would find someone she knew, someone she loved, someone who would buttress her spirits and provide the courage she knew she lacked.

  Keep moving.

  A vine whipped out of the trees. Like a rope, it snagged her throat, wrapped itself around her neck very tightly, setting thorns like fishing hooks. The human flesh beneath the thorns parted. In a gurgle, spraying blood, Ellica called for help. Called and called and called. Until no voice was left, only the knowledge that she was dying.

  Adric, and the oak tree. Not far from the house her father had built, that she had slipped out of avoiding squeaks and creaks. But Adric had gone to fight, and everyone she knew believed he was dead.

  With hands locked into the vine at her throat, trying to yank it loose, Ellica recalled the last day she had seen Adric. The last time he had kissed her.

  Maybe if I’m dead, too, I can find Adric …

  Chapter 11

  LIRRA LED THEM directly to her home, following the odor of stinkwood. Meggie complained about the smell off and on until Torvic hushed her, telling her it wasn’t polite to insult a woman who intended to host them in her own home. But inside his head, he agreed with his sister: stinkwood stunk.

  At last they broke through trees and vegetation and came upon a small cabin. It backed on more trees yet, but before the cabin lay a modest clearing. Torvic saw a neatly tended garden of vegetables, corn, and wheat; a small, crude well house with a winch and pulley system very like the one his da had built at their farmstead; and a bench beside the open door. The cabin itself was made of wood and mud, saplings cut down and laid in courses to form walls with plenty of clay chinking to fill the gaps. In the center of the clearing burned a small fire cairn, a thick plume of smoke rising steadily from it.

  Lirra went directly to the cairn and proceeded to throw dirt on the wood, eventually smothering the fire. “There,” she said in satisfaction. “I only lay stinkwood fires outside, so the cabin won’t smell so bad.” She smoothed loosened strands of brown hair against her head, tucking them back into the knot of coiled braid at the back of her head. “Go in,” she said, gesturing them toward the open door. “I have food and drink aplenty. My husband and I were swallowed whole with our wagon and livestock, so we were able to establish a good home and garden even in the midst of this evil place.” She paused, eyes reflecting sudden grief. “Well, for a while.”

  Meggie followed orders and entered the cabin, but Torvic hesitated. “Can you help us find our mam and da? Can you show us the way out?”

  Lirra shook her head. “I fear the answer to both is no. My husband and I spent days and days trying to make our way back into the human world, but it was impossible. There are no trails, you see, and Alisanos often rearranges itself during the night. That’s why we learned to lay a stinkwood fire, as relying on strips of cloth would soon have had us naked.” She followed Meggie into the cabin, dropping a hand on Torvic’s shoulder as she guided him in. “You and your sister were taken together, as my husband and I were. But if there is distance between other members of your family, they would have been scattered like chaff. It would be exceedingly difficult to find them.”

  “You found us,” Torvic declared as he stepped across the threshold.

  “I did,” Lirra agreed. “But that was great good fortune, and unexpected. I suspected that with Alisanos going active, many more humans would end up lost in the deepwood. I went out to see if I could find any.” She smiled, mood lightening. “And there you were, tucked up in the rocks.”

  The cabin’s roof was low, Torvic saw, too low for his da to be comfortable, but for Lirra it was all right, and for him and his sister. There was a bedstead tucked into one of the corners, a small table and two chairs in the center of the room, and a modest hearth and stone chimney, hosting a small fire. Rough-hewn shelving affixed to the walls allowed Lirra to display such things as a tea kettle, pewter plates, mugs, a handful of pots and pans, and other utensils. Along one wall
rough, doorless cabinets had been mounted.

  “I make do,” she said, indicating the table. “Sit, won’t you? I’ve bread baked fresh this morning, a little meat, and vegetables from my garden. I’ll make you a fine stew. I apologize I haven’t any milk—the cow died a few days back—but the water is sweet and pure.”

  Meggie contemplated the cabin. “Does the rain get in?”

  “Oh, no.” Lirra smiled, taking down a pot. “My husband was able to make the cabin snug and tight before he was taken. I have good shelter here, and the well and a garden, and I can set snares for some of the small creatures, so I eat well enough. But it does get lonely. I’m most glad to have your company.” She worked quickly, Torvic saw, as he climbed into the chair across from Meggie, filling the pot with water from a pitcher and various foodstuffs and herbs from the cabinets. Once she’d hung the pot over the fire, she set out a tin plate hosting a generous chunk of pale yellow cheese. “I’m afraid with the cow dead I’ll have no more cheese, so eat well of this, won’t you? It should quiet your bellies until the stew is ready. And here is water.” She set a mug down before each of them.

  “Were you at the settlement?” Torvic asked.

  Lirra looked puzzled. “What settlement?”