Part 13 (2/2)
”Not the ones with red hair.”
”What happens to them? Soriak!”
Roini cursed and spat. ”He's drugged. Or bespelled. They want to keep us docile. If we're going to make a break for it, it'll have to be soon. Else we'll all end up like him.”
His comment sparked renewed discussion about escape, but for every man like Roini who favored action, there was another who cited Dror's foolhardy attempt. No one had seen him after the guards had dragged him off, but everyone suspected he was dead.
Keirith fell asleep to the drone of men's voices and dreamed of cool rain and the rumble of thunder. When he awoke, the sun hung atop the western wall of the compound and all of the men were sleeping; even the guards on the walls seemed content to doze, heads drooping, bows held loosely in their laps.
The headache that had plagued him since his arrival had become a persistent throb. The equally persistent howling of dogs only made it worse. His bag of charms seemed like a great weight around his neck. All he could do was lie on his side watching the ants marching past his nose. They streamed across the compound in long lines; in Pilozhat, even the ants were orderly.
Shouts roused them. The gates slowly creaked open under the combined efforts of eight guards. A line of curtained boxes swayed into the compound, stopping before a large canopied shelter the guards must have erected while he slept. Men emerged, as richly adorned as the Slave Master. As they settled themselves on brightly colored cus.h.i.+ons, boys trotted forward with jugs and platters of food. The smells made Keirith's mouth water.
Two guards pulled a girl forward. An animated discussion followed, the voices of the five Jhevi-for surely that was who they were-as shrill as women. They punctuated their arguments with groans and shouts and dramatic shaking of fists. When the voices fell silent, the Slave Master clapped his hands twice and the Speaker scratched something on a clay tablet. The girl was shoved to one side and, after the Jhevi paused for meat and drink, the process began again.
The sun sank below the wall while they haggled. Light-headed from hunger and heat, Keirith watched and hated them: their clacking speech and callous laughter, the jewels on their greasy fingers and the bracelets clattering on their wrists, the oily sheen of their black hair and the pretty cus.h.i.+ons beneath their pampered a.r.s.es, and their utter and appalling disregard for the starving captives who watched every bite, every sip with mingled torment and longing.
Finally, it was over. The Jhevi crawled into their boxes. Their chosen captives lined up behind them. The gates creaked open.
A shout from a neighboring shelter made the Slave Master freeze. The guards on the walls drew their bows. Those in the compound hefted their clubs. Instead of a ma.s.s attack, a lone man leaped up and staggered out of his shelter. As the guards moved in, more men poured out from under the canopy, knocking over slower comrades crawling on their hands and knees. One man untied his bulky loincloth and swatted the ground with it. He looked so silly that Keirith laughed.
He was still laughing when someone seized his arm and yanked him to his feet. Temet pushed him out of the shelter. Sinand screamed. Roini shoved past, screaming even louder.
The snakes seemed to come from everywhere, wriggling out of the walls, slithering across the parched earth, slipping over the legs of men who blinked sleepily at the commotion. Keirith backed away, stumbling in his haste. In horrified fascination, he watched the snakes converge on him.
He b.u.mped up against the serving table. Heedless of the greasy platters, he hopped onto it, drawing his feet up in the air. The snakes streamed past. They were adders, he realized, with the same distinctive markings as Natha.
Only then did he remember the rest of his dream, when the rain and the clouds gave way to bands of s.h.i.+mmering blue lights. They arced across the sky like rainbows, then spiraled in on themselves and slithered earthward, hissing his name with Natha's voice.
Mercifully, none of these adders hissed his name. They simply slithered past the screeching Jhevi, and through the open gates.
For a moment, guards and captives alike simply stood there, staring after the adders. The last screams faded. Even the howling of the dogs ceased. As if by magic, his headache vanished as well. He experienced a moment of pure relief. And then the screaming began again.
Not the voices of frightened men and women, but howls, bleats, squeals, squawks. As if every animal in the world were crying out in terror. Instinctively, Keirith covered his ears, although he knew that he couldn't shut out the sounds, that it was the spirits of the birds and beasts screaming inside of him. He tried to block them out, but there were too many. Their terror lanced through him, ripping him open until he was screaming, too, begging them to stop, begging the G.o.ds to silence them, please, Maker, stop the screaming.
The earth rumbled like the thunder in his dream. The table shuddered beneath him, rattling the bronze platters. A clay jug danced off the edge and shattered. The wine spread like a bloodstain and the greedy earth sucked it up. Ladders tilted off the walls and clattered to the ground. The poles of the shelters swayed like saplings in a storm. Captives staggered drunkenly and fell to their knees. The guards planted their feet, bracing themselves. Human shock mingled with animal terror, cras.h.i.+ng over him in ceaseless waves.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The shaking of the earth, the rattling of the platters, the screaming of the animals-it all just stopped. The terror of the men and women in the compound faded more slowly, vibrating inside of him until it was no louder than the drone of bees.
He didn't know when he had fallen. He was only aware of dusty earth beneath his cheek and dusty toes in front of his face. A voice spoke, but he closed his eyes, too exhausted to respond. Water splashed his face. He licked his lips greedily. His eyes fluttered open, but instead of Temet or Roini or Brudien, he looked up into the flat black eyes of the Slave Master.
The Speaker's face loomed into view. ”Why did you scream?”
Keirith shook his head, then gasped as a whip stung his legs.
”Why did you scream?”
”The earth. It was shaking-”
”You screamed before the earth shook. Why?”
”The snakes . . .”
”You screamed after the snakes fled. Why?”
”Please . . .”
”Why did you say the animals were screaming?”
”The dogs. I heard the dogs.”
Again and again, the same questions and then the pause while the Speaker translated his answers. And throughout it all, the Slave Master's eyes never left him.
”Which animals screamed?”
”All of them!”
”If you lie, you will be punished.”
”Punish me, then! Just leave me alone!”
Keirith let the guards pull him to his feet; he was too tired to struggle. Then he realized they weren't taking him to the stake; they were marching him toward the little door.
Terror gave him the strength to break away. He could see guards closing in, but still he ran, knowing he could never reach the gates before the arrows cut him down, not even caring if they did, for at least he would be free of the heat and the pain and the shaking earth and the screaming animals and the Big One pursuing him in his dreams.
But the arrows never came. Instead, something snared his ankles. The breath whooshed out of him as he hit the ground. The last thing he heard amid the babble of strange voices was someone shouting his name.
Chapter 11.
THEY DROPPED THEIR packs in the lee of two large boulders. A storm had blown through that afternoon, drenching them, and the wind had turned colder. Darak sent Urkiat to collect deadwood and dug his firestick out. His palms were still raw from four days of paddling, but he'd always found the ritual of making fire strangely soothing. He was kneeling before the fireboard, ash rod cradled between his stiff palms, when he heard Urkiat's shout.
Grabbing his spear, he raced toward the trees, but his footsteps slowed when Urkiat appeared, smiling.
”What is it?” he asked.
”An old acquaintance.”
The raider lay in a thicket near the base of a rocky outcrop. He must have dragged himself there after he'd fallen. The Maker only knew how he'd managed it with two broken legs. The right was twisted at a grotesque angle. The left was even worse. A white shard of s.h.i.+nbone protruded through a rent in his baggy breeches. His beardless face was deathly pale beneath the dirt, but when Darak crouched beside him and pressed his thumb to the boy's wrist, he felt a faint, irregular pulse.
”Sweet Maker, he's still alive.”
”Not for long.”
He'd probably lain here a night and a day. Even with a healer's care, he wouldn't survive.
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