Karavans (57 page)

The wind still blew, thunder still crashed in the wake of
lightning, the rain, hot rain, still fell. But he stopped and turned around, hoping to see his wife. Instead, he saw only the grasslands, flattened into submission beneath the continuing storm. Wind stripped his hair back from his face so that raindrops, unhindered, burned against his skin.

Davyn placed cupped hands over his eyes as a shield against rain and wind, squinting. “Audrun!” As before, the wind caught his shout. He tried again and again with no result.

Standing still gave the rain carte blanche to hammer at him, drenching hair and clothing. His flesh quivered, flinching from the heat.

Now he cupped hands around his mouth. “Audrun!”

Could he have gone astray? The storm had destroyed his sense of direction. It was possible he—or even she—had run the wrong way. All were blinded by the storm; it was a simple matter to take the first wrong step, then more and more and more. He could be anywhere, lost amid the grasslands. Or she could.

“
Audrun
!”

Nothing. Nothing. The only thing he could see, the only thing he could recognize, was the distant fringe of trees along the horizon, little more than a smudge of darkness. That, he could use as orientation. He prayed Audrun would, if she saw it. If she were not going in the wrong direction.

In despair, as the rain grew hotter yet, Davyn once again faced the horizon with its rim of trees. And ran.

AUDRUN GASPED AUDIBLY as she walked, unable to breathe normally. She was exhausted, empty of all save the conviction that, for the sake of the child, she had to keep going. One step, followed by another, and another, and all the additional anothers she needed to arrive at what safety the guide had promised when he told them all to go east. Told them to run.

But she couldn’t run anymore. Her body’s comprehension
of the movements required to run had dissipated moments, or even hours ago. Walking, she could manage. Walking, she maintained despite the lashing of burning rain. It was all she could offer the child in her belly.

M
IKAL FELL TO HIS KNEES. He gripped his chest, panting. Sweat sprang onto his brow. His face was gray.

“Mikal!” To see him, Bethid had to turn into the wind. “Mikal, we have to go on!”

He shook his head, breathing heavily. “I can’t.”

“Mikal—”

“I
can’t
… but you go on. Go, Beth!”

She knelt before him. “What’s wrong?”

“My chest … pain.” He patted his broad chest with one hand, gasping for breath. “Pain inside.” He gazed at her out of his one good eye. “Go on, Beth.”

She shook her head. “I won’t!”

“… lie down …” Mikal slumped to the side, collapsing onto his back. “…must …”

Bethid was paralyzed, staring down at the man so obviously in pain.
What do I do? What do I do
? Her world was full of wind and lightning and thunder, of fear and desperation. A portion of her wanted to get up and run again, to leave Mikal in the dirt. And on the heels of that realization came shame.
What I can do is help this man
.

Kneeling in the midst of the storm, Bethid looked around. Most of her world was blotted out by dust, by blinding crimson lightning, but she could see dark shapes
within the dust and debris, people from the settlement going east, as she, and Mikal, had told them. If a man would stop, or even two, they could lift Mikal up and carry him east.

Bethid shouted for help. No help came.

Mikal, she knew, was dying. She knew also that she could not leave him.

She moved around the ale-keep until she could block some wind with her back, take his head into her lap. She leaned over him, closing her eyes against the storm.

The ground beneath her trembled as hot rain fell.

“Alisanos,” she murmured.
Alisanos is coming
.

THE GROUND SHUDDERED. Rain was not enough, wind was not enough, lightning was not enough. Now the very earth beneath the hooves of Rhuan’s horse rebelled.

Oh, it was close, so close, Alisanos. Rhuan gritted his teeth, baring them in a rictus of frustration, of pain. He felt the deepwood as a thrumming in his bones. His skin itched. Rain bathed his body with welcomed warmth, but the wind howled on.

He was
dioscuri
. Could he control the storm? Could he placate the earth?

Ah, but this was of Alisanos. And Alisanos wanted, it very badly wanted, to move to new environs.

The spotted horse flagged. Rhuan leaned forward, patted the soaked neck, and promised, in his milk-tongue, that the horse would receive the finest of care when they were free of the storm, when they had time to rest, to drink, to eat.

But the earth shuddered and abruptly split asunder. The horse, too weary to change his direction even as Rhuan tried to rein him aside, went down, front legs collapsing into the widening rent in grass and soil. The horse screamed and floundered, trying to scramble up, but the earth was unforgiving. It crumbled away into chasm, soil and grass falling out from under hooves.

As his mount went down, Rhuan threw himself sideways, striking the ground and rolling aside, then scrambled up to lunge away from the chasm that had opened immediately in front of his horse. Raw earth boiled up, was hurled away by the wind. The horse’s face was caked with dirt, his eyes rolling in terror. As he fought to pull his front legs free, the chasm widened beneath his belly. It was now too wide for Rhuan to reach the reins without falling in himself.

He felt the shivering of the ground. It squirmed, writhed, broke apart in a rumble far deeper than the thunder’s song. Only moments remained.

The terrified gelding screamed. Lather coated him, foam dripped from his mouth. But there was nothing Rhuan could do. The earth had every intention of eating the horse.

Rhuan strung together a twisted, tangled skein of curses, exhorting the horse to break free, damning the chasm. Already it was beginning to close. The horse, when swallowed whole, would suffocate.

Rhuan hissed between his teeth. He had only two choices. The first was untenable; he owed far more to the horse than to walk away from his terror. The second was a mercy, albeit one he hated to render. It was also dangerous.

But nonetheless worth the doing. Rhuan knew that.

The wind was too strong for throwing knives. He drew his bone-handled, long-bladed knife. He ran two long paces, then sprang.

He landed crouched atop the saddle with his legs doubled up, swung forward under the horse’s neck as he clung to mane with his left hand; with his right, he stabbed deeply with the knife. Once. Twice.

As the horse floundered and screamed, gouts of blood spraying, Rhuan used the impetus to leap free, to leap far, to land crouched again, legs doubled again, one hand pressed against the earth to steady himself while the other, still gripping the knife, he kept away from his flesh.

He thrust himself upright and turned to see the horse. So much blood. The white patches of hair between the black spots became red.

After a moment, the horse stopped screaming. The spotted head bowed slackly.

In the rain, in the wind, in the midst of crimson lightning, Rhuan paid tribute with the only thing he had: words of sorrow, words of thanks.

The earth opened. It took the horse down. It swallowed him utterly.

Rhuan cleaned and sheathed his knife. Then he turned west—and heard the woman’s shout carried upon the wind.

ILONA HUNG ON to Jorda’s belt. She felt shaken nearly to death and her head was aching. The uneven lumbering gait of the draft horse was worse now than it had been when their ride began, and since they rode bareback there was no security in their seats. They clung to the horse with their legs, and Ilona clung to Jorda, who kept up a steady stream of invective, all of which concerned the parentage of the horse as well as the gelding himself.

They still rode east, she thought. Though in the midst of the storm she wasn’t certain which direction was which. She was no more certain which end was up or down.

They had lost track of the exodus from the settlement. For all she could tell, in the midst of the storm, they were the last surviving humans in the world. One man, one woman … one incredibly uncomfortable horse.

And then the uncomfortable horse took it into his head to stumble badly.

Jorda went off, and Ilona went with him.

She landed hard, and alone. At some point she had lost her grip on Jorda’s belt. Blinded by the storm, she could see nothing of the ground. She fell hard, facedown, left arm doubled under her body. Her left hip struck stone. She sprawled flat upon the earth.

The pain in her arm was immense. She could not restrain her outcry. And she could not restrain her body’s impulse
to seek relief; she rolled over onto her back, cradling her left arm against her chest.

Hot rain struck her face, fell into her open mouth. She lay gasping on her back like a landed fish. Long strands of dark hair stuck to her face and neck. Sweat broke out. Tears ran from the corners of her eyes to the earth she couldn’t see.

Jorda.

She said his name. She said it twice. It took immense effort to speak his name at all, with an arm screaming at her. Broken, she thought. No; broken, she
knew
.

“Jorda.”

The rain was
hot
.

“Jorda!”

When no answer came, Ilona gritted her teeth and rolled onto her right side. The arm continued to scream at her; she pressed it firmly against her chest, levered herself with her good right arm onto her right hip, and drew her legs up. She took a breath and heaved herself upward, face set in a grimace. She managed to get her legs under her so she had support, then used her right arm to brace herself against collapse.

The world around her spun. She thought it might be the storm. She thought it might be the pain.

She had no time for pain.

“Jorda?”

No answer came.

ELLICA TRIPPED AND FELL. She landed on hands and knees and bit into her lip. Blood welled up. She spat. Her tangled mass of soaked hair hung down on either side of her face. “Gillan?”

“Ellica!”

She spat blood again. “Where are you?” Her grip on his hand had broken when she fell. Her eyes were gritty, lashes crusted with dirt. Wind whirled around her. “Gillan!” She stood up, shielding her face with her hands. “Where are you?”