Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (17 page)

Lirra, stirring water, meat, vegetables, and herbs in the hanging pot, didn’t answer at once. When she did, grief shone in her eyes. “There’s no going back. Even if we found a way out of Alisanos, no one would aid us. We’re different now, you see. The breath of Alisanos is upon us.” She looked at them both. “It pains me to give you such news. But you need to know the truth. False hope hurts so much more.”

“Did you
try
to leave?” Meggie asked.

“I told you: many times. We could find no way. After my husband was taken …” She hitched one shoulder. “I gave up trying.”

“But if Alisanos has moved, maybe you can get out now,” Torvic said. “Maybe you can
find
the way.”

Lirra turned toward them, clenching her hands together against the front of her skirt. “You must understand. You must come to understand. Those of us trapped in Alisanos are different now. The breath is upon us. We can never go back. They won’t have us, don’t you see? They shun us. They kill us.”

Meggie’s blue eyes were huge. “
Who
kills you?”

“Humans,” Lirra answered.

“That man.” Torvic looked at his sister. “That man who came to the wagon, the one we thought was a demon.”

Meggie fixed her eyes upon Lirra. “He had
claws.
Not hands.”

“Yes,” she said steadily, “that happens often. But I was fortunate.” She unclasped and displayed her hands. “You see? No claws. No scales.”

“Then you could go back,” Torvic insisted. “You’re like everyone else, not like that moonsick man.”

“No,” Lirra said, “I’m not.” Tears shone in her eyes. “They would kill me. I can’t go back. And now, neither can you.”

Meggie, clutching cheese in one hand and a mug in the other, began to weep.

GILLAN ROUSED AT the sound of a voice speaking in a language he didn’t recognize. It was full of sibilants. He lifted his head from the
ground and attempted to look upward, but weakness was paramount. He let his cheek rest again upon the earth. The pain of his leg, the fear of what he might find—or
not
find—when he looked at it had drained him utterly. There was strength for nothing.

Someone squatted down beside him. Sibilants faded into words he understood. “You’re the farmsteader boy. Ai, well, Rhuan did try to warn your sire. See what it brought you, that stubbornness? And now Rhuan is as much at risk as you are.”

The voice sounded familiar. It nagged at him. Gillan lifted his head again and turned it even as it shook upon his neck, and saw beside him the karavan guide, the other guide, the one called Darmuth. The shock was such that it drew a blurted question. “You’re here, too?”

“So I am, farmsteader boy. Though coming here was my choice; I wasn’t trapped, as you were. As likely your entire family was.
And
Rhuan.” He bent down low, folding himself upon the ground so that his face was no farther from Gillan’s than the span of two spread hands. Pale gray eyes had elongated pupils. He flicked his tongue free of his mouth, and Gillan, in shock, saw that the tongue was forked. “You have interfered with the natural course of things, do you know that? Rhuan’s journey has been ended prematurely, as has mine.
As has mine
. And now Rhuan is in danger, and so am I. All because a human was too pigheaded to heed the warnings from a
dioscuri
. A
dioscuri!
” He raised himself up again. Now Gillan
could only see his lower body. “And you’ve hurt yourself, I see. Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. You’re a juvenile—you had no choice but to do as your sire instructed; I can’t lay blame upon you for that. Here, let me look at your leg.”

Hands were upon his homespun trews. Gillan tried to tell the guide no, not to do it, not to look, but the cloth parted. Darmuth peeled back the fabric. Gillan squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his teeth together. Air upon his leg set it afire.

“You’ll likely limp,” Darmuth said. “Muscle is burned as well as flesh. But the bone is whole. You’ll walk.”

His eyes snapped open. “I won’t lose it?”

“Not unless I decide to eat it. Which is always possible.” Darmuth leaned down again, all the way down, staring into Gillan’s face. “You do understand, don’t you? Or perhaps you don’t.” His lips drew back in a wide, wide smile, displaying the green gemstone set in a canine tooth. “I’m a demon, boy.” His tongue slid out again, sinuous and forked. “I feast upon your kind.”

No. No. No.
It was the only word in Gillan’s head. And the only one in his mouth, when he recovered his voice.

“No?” Darmuth grinned. “How about now?”

Gillan saw, to his horror, a scale pattern bleeding into Darmuth’s face. The pupils now were slits. Even the shape of his face began to alter.

“No!” Gillan cried.

“Yes!” But the scale pattern faded as quickly as it
had come, and the eyes looked normal again. Human again. Darmuth straightened. “This is my home, farmsteader boy. Alisanos. The deepwood. I was born here. As for why I’ve been in the human world, play-acting the role of a human? Well, that’s a tale to be told later.”

Gillan had to ask the question. “Does Rhuan know what you are?”

That resulted in a gust of unfettered laughter. “Oh, I do think so. After all, he was born here, too. He knows exactly what I am.”

It was shocking. “
Rhuan’s
a demon?”

“Now, that’s not what I said. Not everyone born here is a demon. Rhuan is—quite something else. Now, boy, I’m going to lift you up. I expect you’ll pass out. If you’re fortunate, you’ll remain that way while I carry you to shelter.”

Even the idea of movement was excruciating. But there was something to be said. “I have a name,” he declared, “and it isn’t ‘boy,’ or ‘farmsteader boy’ It’s Gillan.”

Darmuth grinned. “I know that. Boy.”

But before he could speak again, protest again, the demon put hands on him and began to lift. Gillan went screaming into darkness.

RHUAN ONCE AGAIN surrendered his leather tunic to a purpose other than the one for which it was made. He had tucked hard-rinded
globes of blackfruit into it, along with a handful of pods containing sweet, rich, nutlike meat. He was hungry and knew Audrun was; of them all, only the baby was replete. He ducked through thick vegetation, following his instinctive sense of direction toward the dreya ring. Those born in Alisanos could generally find their way even without tracks and pathways, but there were never any guarantees that what they sought remained in the same place. Nonetheless, dreya rings were more deeply tied to the earth than other trees and landmarks, and were far less likely to uproot and move.

But when he reached the dreya ring, he saw that indeed the trees had moved. All of their branches stretched high overhead, forming an impenetrable roof against the sky through which little sunlight showed. Audrun, not screened by lower limbs, stood in the center of the ring holding the baby, staring upward.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

Her head jerked toward him. “Rhuan, be careful! He flies!”

Rhuan sensed the shadow, heard the displacement of air, and threw the tunic full of fruit at the shape that came down upon him. He had the impression of dark, leathery wings and outspread human arms, but little else as he hurled himself to the ground and rolled. When he came up onto one knee, the other booted foot planted on the earth, he had a throwing knife in his hand. He snapped it, saw the winged creature jerk aside sharply, then had another in his hand.

One wing slapped down, an edge catching Rhuan across the eyes. He could not suppress the outcry of shock and pain even as he reached out with his left hand, trying to ward off the attacker. Claws closed upon the hand with the knife, sinking deeply into flesh. He felt other claws rake a thigh, reaching toward his abdomen.

He tried to duck away, tried to roll, tried to throw himself out of reach, but wings blinded him. He felt the clamminess of leathery membranes slapping around his body, felt claws again. On hands and knees, this time he grabbed for his long-bladed belt knife. He slashed blindly, heard a cry of pain and anger, and the creature opened his wings, climbing up and away, then plummeted down.

Rhuan rose to his feet, wiping briefly at a bloody forehead to clear his eyes. He saw what appeared uncannily like a human man crouching five paces away. Black hair tangled on his shoulders. One hand was pressed against his ribs. Rhuan saw blood, blood and patterned scales, and white, white skin. He saw too that the man—the creature—wore no shoes, and black, glistening claws extended from his feet, matching those of his hands. Pale eyes burned.

“He wants the baby,” Audrun said.

“Well, he can’t have her.” Rhuan tossed back his braids, winced at a stab of pain, and tried to assume a posture of readiness. To the creature, he said, “Begone. You can’t have this baby.”

Blood spilled through clawed fingers, dripping
groundward. Wings, but loosely folded, snapped upward and spread. The creature leaped.

Rhuan threw himself aside again, ducking underneath the creature, but felt claws sink into his braids to cut the flesh of his skull. He stabbed, he slashed, smelled the creature’s musk as it closed with him. Blinded again, upon one knee, he thrashed and fought, hoping to somehow hit something vital. The creature screamed and unlocked his claws, lunging upward raggedly. Blood rained down through the air, showering Rhuan. And then the creature was gone, rising up through the forest, lost to sight.

“Rhuan? Rhuan!”

He knelt, doubled over in pain. His abdomen hurt so badly he feared evisceration, was afraid to remove the hand splayed across his middle. His scalp bled unremittingly, painting his face crimson. His braids were soggy with blood. He drew in a long, trembling breath, then blew it out in a hissing stream between his lips.

“Rhuan?” Hands were on him, touching his shoulders hesitantly. “O Mother, oh, this is bad …”

He could not suppress the faint gust of laughter from his mouth. “So it is.”

“Come into the ring. Can you come into the ring?”

He lifted his bowed head and saw, through the runnels of blood, the farmstead wife staring at him anxiously. Save for a lack of blood, he thought she looked no better than he.

“Come into the ring, Rhuan.”

He made the effort. She closed her hands upon his
upper arm and tried to aid him, tried to urge him to his feet, but the best he could do was scoot on one hip, pushing himself with his free hand.

“Almost,” she said, having given up attempting to physically help. “Not so much farther.”

“The baby,” he managed.

“Safe. She’s safe. She’s in the ring. Come, Rhuan.” And then a brief, startled laugh issued from her mouth. “But I was forgetting! You’ll heal. And even if not, you’ll revive!”

He half crawled, half pushed himself across the invisible border between hostile forest and dreya ring. He left blood in his wake, running from his scalp, dripping from his braids, oozing out of claw scores. When at last he was in the ring, he found the queen tree. At its foot, cradled amid great silver-hued roots, he placed his spine against the patterned trunk. And finally, finally, he lifted his hand from his abdomen.

Relief made him weak. “Ah, no guts … not so bad as it might be …”