Beneath an Opal Moon (31 page)

He put his back against the bole of a tree, smelling the heady scent of the bed of brown pine needles carpeting the rich earth all about him, hearing the sad call of a whippoorwill high up in the branches overhead. He looked upward, saw a brown-and-white speckled owl close by. But there was something strange about it. He looked again. Its eyes were closed. The owl was nocturnal so it should be wide-awake at this time. Why wasn't it?

Then he had the answer and with it came the knowledge of victory. He had a chance now, he knew. One chance in ten thousand. But it was better than no chance at all. But he had to have time to think it through.

It was the moon. Even though it was not full, it was yet magnified in this strange land and its bloody illumination was of such a burning brightness that it had caused the owl to shut its eyes.

Moonlight on the water of the rushing stream.

Like a key jarring open a lock in his mind, a memory had surfaced.
One of the reasons
, Kossori had once told him,
that
koppo
takes so long to master is that it is more than half mental. One must learn to attain a spirit “as calm as moonlight.” That is, an attitude of dispassion, being at once aware of the landscape in general as well as of the specifics of detail. While this attitude is maintained, the
koppo
adept may be considered invincible. But should some element be inserted which is distracting, which interferes with this attitude, then, as a cloud passing before the face of the moon turns all the world dark and shadowy, he can be undone
.

Demoneye exploded into a thousand shards as Hellsturm plunged into the stream and gained the far bank. He paused there, his senses questing for his prey.

Without moving the rest of his body, Moichi felt around on the pine carpet with his hands until he found what he wanted. He hefted it in his left hand, judging its weight, then tucked it into his belt around the back so that it was out of sight.

But in so doing, his elbow had passed through a small patch of moonlight and, like a hound to the scent, Hellsturm's handsome head swiveled around, orienting on him. The Tudescan launched himself up the incline more swiftly than Moichi had thought possible. His long, lean legs pumped in seeming defiance of gravity.

The lethal hands were raised and Moichi moved back. He stumbled and was obliged to block a blow as he was falling backward.

The man's strength was appalling, even at this stage, and Moichi almost felt his nerve break as he was borne under the demonic assault.

They were getting through now and there was no more time. In a moment, he would be beaten into a pulp. He gritted his teeth as he used his right arm, the one that had been dislocated, to block the blows raining down on him. The pain was like a living thing, eating at his flesh, but it could not be helped because he needed his left hand. It darted behind him, the fingers closing around the cool, hard surface, pulled it out.

Now.

Head on fire from an only partially deflected tiger-strike.

Now now now.

“Tsuki!” he called. “Over here! Quickly!”

It was a desperate thing, a ploy once used so often that now no one used it.

Hellsturm's head jerked, eyes opened a fraction. His hands hesitated an instant, a cloud passing before the face of the moon.

Out of the shadows and the darkness Moichi swung upward with all his might, trapping Hellsturm's right hand between the trunk of the pine and the saw-edged rock in his fist.

There came a sharp, cracking sound as if a tree had been felled. The skin shredded and Moichi bore down, grinding the rock into the bone. Blood spurted as the knuckles splintered one by one.

Hellsturm's head snapped back and his sensual lips drew away from his teeth. The whites shone all around his eyes and Moichi could smell the stench of his sweat. But Hellsturm still had his left hand and he used it now, driving the rock from Moichi's grasp, oblivious to the pain, using it as if it were a mace to bludgeon his opponent.

Moichi drove upward with the toe of one boot, caught Hellsturm in the stomach. But his chain mail absorbed most of the impact and he bore down. He had hold of Moichi's right shoulder now and he dug his fingers into the already wounded socket.

Pain was a blanket that completely covered Moichi. His eyes teared and he cried out, his arm hanging numb and useless with the agony.

But now his left hand was scrabbling at his belt and he grasped the hilt of one of his dirks. He tried to withdraw it, but in the battle it had somehow gotten fouled in the fabric of his shirt.

Hellsturm, his handsome face twisted into a mask of hate and blood-lust, continued to dig into the flesh of his shoulder, pulling at his arm. In another moment, the bone would be pulled from its socket again and the pain would be overwhelming. If he passed out now—

He had it! The dirk came free and, without further thought, he slashed upward, not really aiming because there was no time. He felt the bone slipping, grinding against the socket, and he yelled. The blade of the dirk shot through the night, the edge opening Hellsturm's face from the right eye across the bridge of the nose, through to the left eye.

Hellsturm let out a howl like an animal and his body jerked upward. On his feet he stumbled backward, his ruined hand to his ruined face. He tripped and almost righted himself but the incline was too steep and there was too much blood on him; he was blind and blood filled his ears and mouth and he had no balance. He crashed backward obliquely and his spine cracked against the trunk of a pine. His momentum was such that he spun off drunkenly, careening down the embankment, spinning, until he hurtled into the rushing stream, entangled in the rocks, the bloody illumination of Demoneye dappling the body as if it were no harsh intruder upon the harmonious landscape.

The Anvil

Beyond the ending on the plain was the forest and beyond that the bright shore of the Deathsea.

It was midday before they breached the far verge of the forest. It seemed a dismal place, heavily overgrown with dense tangled foliage, ropy vines and thorned creepers; the earth in between littered with great malevolent-looking mushrooms as lividly white as snow. But there seemed little in the way of fauna. What birds inhabited its upper reaches were strictly nocturnal, disappearing before the sun heaved its bulk above the torn horizon.

They were both relieved to quit its dark and intense interior.

But what they saw now surprised them, for the Deathsea was a deep and waterless scar upon the face of the land, a rotting skeleton divested of all skin and flesh.

The Deathsea was dust and swirling ash, glittering unrelievedly in the sunlight, undulating sharply, its sloping sides turning it into a baking oven.

They paused at the edge of it, staring directly across its length, and there, upon the far shore, just visible, were the shadowy towers and fenestrations of Mistral, the home of Sardonyx.

They decided almost immediately to take the shortest route: through the Deathsea. The thing was perhaps twice again as wide as it was long and they estimated that it would take them the better part of four days to skirt it.

The temperature climbed alarmingly as they descended and, once, Moichi considered turning back; but he could not bring himself to voice his thoughts. His mind ever strayed to Aufeya and what she might be suffering at the hands of Sardonyx and his resolve deepened.

All about them was dust and decay. Not the kind of oozing rot one might find in the depths of some leafy jungle or in a fetid swamp but rather a peculiar kind of desiccation that bordered on fossilization—as if all moisture had been sucked from the sea.

The deeper they descended, the fiercer the heat became, a dry baking heat which mounted until they felt as if they were roasting on a spit. Yet the absolute lack of humidity made it bearable and kept them going.

The sun was white and hung swollen, seemingly motionless, above them. Moichi, who had much experience with terrible heat in the doldrums of the southern latitudes, wrapped an extra shirt over the top of his head and around his forehead, bidding Chiisai do the same. He did not want either of them passing out with sunstroke.

They spoke infrequently and then only in monosyllables. Much of this had to do with the heat; the expenditure of energy was debilitating. Yet there were other reasons, also.

Just past noon they ate desultorily, without appetite. Chiisai would have foregone the meager meal entirely if he had not insisted that she eat something; the sunlight sapped the body's energy all too quickly.

The floor of the Deathsea leveled off now but they seemed still to be in the shallows. Presently, as if dropping from a shelf, they found themselves descending on a steep incline to the true bed of the Death-sea.

They paused once in the afternoon to water the luma, which, like camels, tended to store up much of their needed liquids. Chiisai took two sips of the tepid fluid but Moichi declined. Limiting strenuous exercise, he knew how to conserve his body's own water and keep drinking to a minimum. This might be crucial later on, if they ran into any unforeseen difficulties that required water.

In the depths they passed a skeletal carcass, rearing up higher than a house, the rigid dry bones casting thin escarpments of shadow, bars of dark and light, rippling across the seabed. The immense skull, which lay half buried in the dust, was long and narrow, almost all jutting jaw. It had double rows of teeth and a minimal cranial cavity.

Further on, they came across the desiccated carcass of another kind of creature. This one seemed to have had wings, the bones spread out on either side of the carcass delicate and perfectly round and—he saw where there was a break—hollow. The lack of water vapor, of course, made the Deathsea perfect for the preservation of once-living things.

He would have liked to explore more of these fossils for they were of a sort he had never seen before, but he had no time nor any way to search them out at long-distance; the brilliance of the place combined with the distortions caused by the intense heat made it impossible to see anything before they were almost upon it, even husks as large as these long-dead creatures.

The sky above them was cloudless, white where the sun hung, fading to a pale blue, but now he saw before them a kind of haze, hanging between them and the far shore. He shook his head and shaded his eyes, fearful that the heat was playing visual tricks. He nudged Chiisai and she followed his pointing finger, nodded.

What they saw was a cloud, so low down that it seemed to brush the floor of the Deathsea. Its top did not rise higher than the shoreline.

It seemed to be moving, fuzzy and continually in motion and definitely headed toward them.

Then it was upon them and they were abruptly engulfed in a swarm of giant flying insects. There was a droning buzz in their ears but the creatures themselves moved too fast to get a good look at. They were merely blurs, whizzing and darting. Yet not once did any of the creatures come close enough to touch either one of them and they seemed harmless enough.

They urged their luma onward and were soon past the horde. They glanced back, watched the insect cloud make its slow steady way across the Deathsea. Moichi wondered what they fed off, since there was nothing to eat in this desolate place.

Dusk came early for them since, as soon as the sun dropped below the sea's high bank to the west, their evening began even while the rest of the world was still bathed in sunlight. It was a blessing, for the temperature began to drop almost as soon as the shadows began to creep over the bed of the sea. Apparently whatever the ground was composed of did not retain the day's accumulated heat for long.

Soon they were engulfed in shadow.

They stopped early and made camp, exhausted not only from the day's journey but from their toils of the night before. All the day, Moichi had kept his damaged right arm close to his side, forearm resting across his thigh; the heat felt good on it.

They settled into a space with the gigantic ribs of some creature arching over their heads like a cathedral shell. Its skull was wide and thick, a long straight horn protruding from its forehead.

There was, unfortunately, nothing with which to make a fire, and as the temperature plummeted they regretted this deeply. It seemed inconceivable that just a short time ago this dust and air had been shimmering with heat. The luma stood close together, snorting, their blown breath making tiny clouds of mist, and Moichi and Chiisai took their cue from their steeds, huddling together for the warmth their own bodies provided.

There was time for talk after they ate but both seemed reluctant to do so. Moichi had seen what she had done to the Tülc but he still had no idea what had been done to her. He knew Chiisai well enough to understand that she was a naturally gregarious person and this silence was disturbing. Yet still he held back from speech. He felt, instinctively, the importance of her initiating this talk. That she had something on her mind he took as a given.

“How is your shoulder?” Her voice was soft and muted although there was no wind to speak of down here at the bottom of the sea. “Is the pain bad?”

“Not so much now. The heat helped a great deal.”

“You should put it in a sling.”

“Considering where we are bound, that's not a very good idea.”

“It's going to be of little use to you in any event.”

“Tomorrow, I'll see if I can get it over my head.”

“You're mad.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

She laughed but it seemed to choke in her throat and she was crying against his shoulder, silent tears rolling down her high-boned cheeks.

“It's all over now, Chiisai,” he said, the words sounding foolish to his own ears.

“‘What is terror,'” she whispered, “‘but the face of one's own fears.' This is a saying among the Bujun. One which I had heard many times, yet never really understood until last night. I stared death in the face, Moichi, and I was not afraid. But the Tülc—” She hesitated and he knew that this was what had been eating at her, the source of her brooding silence. Bars of red and black striped them—moonlight and shadow caused by the giant curved rib cage within which they huddled. His luma stamped once and was still. “The Tülc would have taken me. Dead or alive, I don't think he cared. Perhaps, even, he wished to see me die while he was still—” She stopped, unable to go on for long moments. Yet, otherwise, she seemed in control; her body was calm. Her arms clutched him more strongly and he knew that she had not yet come to the difficult part—for her. “I have never—been with a man. And when I saw him standing over me—standing there and—I could not allow that to happen. I—I was afraid and I am ashamed.” The last was said in a rush as if, once having made up her mind to tell him, she was making certain she would not back off at the last instant. “I lost my nerve.”