Storms of Destiny (9 page)

All around it the Hthras sensed the forest. Closing its eyes, it concentrated, and was finally rewarded by a blurry image of the searchers amidst the ruins. They had not found the vine-shielded entrance to Khith’s lair, or, if they had, they had not entered. Instead they were casting about, plainly searching for a trail.

One of the jagowas snarled, its cry rising into a roar as it surged forward, dragging the handler.

Time to disappear,
Khith realized.
They’ll be here in moments.

Slowly, balancing on one foot, the Hthras thrust its right foot backward, full into the blade-brush that encroached onto the narrow trail. Smooth, sharp-pointed leaves raked along its hide, but its fur provided some protection. Then, awkward with its heavy pack, the scholar gave a little hop, leaving the path and crashing back into the blade-brush. It stifled a whimper as the leaves drew blood.

Hastily, trying to ignore the stinging of its palms from the leaves, Khith pushed the screen of brush back into place.

Then the Hthras wiped the edges of the leaves to remove the narrow blood-trails. Sprinkling herbs to hide its scent, the scholar arranged the branches as it would a living sculpture.

When the brush was back in place, Khith ducked its head to protect its eyes, then backed away on hands and knees, ignoring more stinging little slashes from the leaves.

Finally, when it was at least three body lengths off the trail, it subsided into a little huddle, trying to repress its shivers.

This was a calculated risk. The blade-brush might discourage a jagowa, but it would also make flight nearly impossible.

Voices …

Khith’s ears twitched.
They’re here!

It stiffened with fear as its pursuers came swiftly up the trail, with the jagowas bounding in the lead.

Khith whispered another verse of the chant, its voice so soft that it could barely hear itself.

“Briars <
beat, beat >
Tear their clothing
Roots catch <
beat, beat >
At their feet
Swamp ground <
beat, beat >
Stirs their loathing
Hold them until I can retreat
Hold them so we will not meet.”

The Hthras heard the hunting party go past, headed for the stream, then heard the irritated snarls and yowls of the jagowas. The big hunters hated water. Still, from the sounds of it, they splashed right into the stream. Khith heard the hunters exclaim excitedly, and dared to hope that its spell was working and they would be lured downstream.

If only the Hthras trackers trusted their senses! If they did, the spell would work on them, fooling their eyes, their ears.

They would follow the leaf downstream, thinking they saw glimpses of a running figure, thinking they heard running footsteps, thinking they smelled the fear of a fugitive.

The spell would not fool the jagowas, of course, but the water would do that … or so Khith hoped.

Still whispering, Khith began edging back again, careful not to move the brush more than necessary. Stoically, it ignored the scratches, chanting in a voice that was scarcely more than breath.

“Searchers <
beat, beat >
Will not find me
Hunters <
beat beat >
Lose my trail
Forest <
beat, beat >
Help and guide me
Shield me with the forest’s veil
Help me that I may not fail …”

It was a long, slow, miserable crawl. Khith backed away for many lengths before it could find a place to turn. Once it could crawl forward instead of scuttling backward, it was a little easier. The Hthras ducked its head, ears flattened with misery, crawling doggedly as insects feasted on its cuts, and its palms, knees, and feet grew sore and abraded, despite the softness of the forest loam.

Finally the Hthras took a chance and crawled out of the brush. Only then did it dare to turn and look back whence it had come.

Dusk was falling, and the searchers must have activated

their lightsticks. There was a distant phosphorescent gleam far downstream.

The spell had worked!

Khith drew courage from that knowledge, feeling the swell of pride. It had studied for years, but never before had a spell been so important. The scholar had feared that the old spells would prove ineffective. Khith had wondered whether Hthras magical abilities had waned over genera-tions, and that was why most Hthras had given up on the old spells.

But that one had worked. Khith hugged itself in triumph.

Then the scholar stiffened, as it heard a different sound.

Snarls and growls, followed by a keening, uncanny wail, and it was growing louder!

The jagowas—they’ve loosed them! They only sound like
that when they’re coursing free!

Quickly, Khith changed its escape plan. It could no longer hope to stay to the forest paths on its way northwest. No, for now it must go due west. And quickly!

Khith was already tired from its long crawl, but the scholar forced its body into a fast trot. The heavy pack bounced uncomfortably on its back, but there was no time to adjust the straps. Khith glanced up at the treetops, wishing it could travel those byways. To the Hthras, even narrow tree limbs were like roads, and they felt most comfortable traversing the forest canopy.

But if it took to the treetops, its pursuers could send for reinforcements, and in a short time it would be caught. Khith had no illusions about being able to outdistance searchers in the treetops. Only here, on the forest floor, far below the Hthras’ domain, might it hope to elude its pursuers.

Unlike most Hthras, Khith knew the forest floor. The scholar had spent so much time down here, where most Hthras never went, that it could sense the green pulse of the forest life.

As the scholar ran, following faint paths that were little more than game trails, Khith strained every sense to its ut-most.
Where are the jagowas?

Dream-memories of sharp teeth assailed the fugitive as Khith imagined the creatures gaining, gaining, then their bodies arcing up in a huge pounce. Khith shook its head, telling itself to calm down. If the jagowas were within pouncing range, it would have heard them.

The trail grew less distinct, then vanished. Khith was wad-ing through scattered blade-brush now. The tiny cuts and slices smarted and drew insects to feast on the blood.

Gasping, Khith ran faster, abandoning its efforts at stealth. It could hear the jagowas coursing, sensed them drawing nearer. Without their handlers to control them, the beasts would tear it to pieces within minutes.

Khith wished fervently that it had studied spells of warding, spells of defense, spells meant to render an enemy helpless. But such spells were not in its nature. It found the idea of violence abhorrent.

Its world narrowed until there was nothing but the forest and its terrible need to flee the bloody fate coursing behind it.
Run! Run! RunrunrunrunRUN!

Panic threatened to overwhelm the scholar, but with one small, sane part of its mind, Khith forced itself to look around as it plunged onward.
Where am I?

The ground beneath its running feet was ascending … a good sign. The forest giants were smaller here, mixed with other varieties of trees. Khith’s night vision, like that of all Hthras, was acute. Putting on a burst of speed, it managed to gain a minute or so on its pursuers.

With frantic haste the scholar leaped for the bole of a rough-bark tree, swarmed up it halfway. From this vantage point it could clearly make out the landmark it needed—a tall, dead forest giant shone ghostly silver by the light of the Moon.

Khith scrabbled back down the tree trunk, the air tearing its chest with every breath it drew. Altering course slightly, it headed for the dead giant.

As Khith approached the huge, silver bole of the lightning-blasted tree, it could hear the pursuers. They had gained again, and were now only minutes behind. The jagowas were in full cry, maddened by the blood-fresh scent of their prey.

Moving cautiously despite its haste, Khith walked due west of the dead giant.
Fifty paces …

It nearly overshot its goal, despite the moonlight and the thinning vegetation. But its night vision was keen, and it saw the faintly luminescent marker far down the tree trunk, nearly hidden by the giant roots. Pulling off its pack, the Hthras wrapped its robe around its hands as it cautiously searched for the slender cord of spun silk that was fastened to a staple set deep into the tree trunk.

Its questing hands found the narrow length, so fine-spun and translucent that it would be nearly invisible even in daylight. Quickly but carefully, Khith began reeling in the spun-silk cord, winding it round and round the bole of the tree.

Hurry! Hurry!

It seemed that hours had passed by the time the silken cord was replaced by the anchor-rope for the Hthras bridge.

Khith hastily fastened the bridge-ropes to the tree trunk, using the clamps attached to the cords. Only then did it regard the bridge and the chasm that yawned beneath it.

The cliff was a high one, naked rock scored as if a huge blade had slashed downward, creating a deep chasm. Far below, water rushed foaming white in the moonlight. This chasm marked the boundary of the local Hthras demesne.

Digging its narrow heels into the ground, Khith began tightening up the bridge, snugging up each cord until it was taut. The sounds of shouts and snarls from the jagowas closing in lent speed to its exhausted body. The harsh ropes scored the scholar’s palms.

It seemed to take forever, but finally it was done. Khith hauled on the bridge until it was taut, then secured the end to the bolts screwed into the tree at the edge of the cliff.

The bridge was visible in the moonlight as a spiderweb of narrow cords, scarcely seeming strong enough to support a single Hthras. But lian vines were strong.

Holding tightly to the two cords that served as handrails, Khith ventured out, its narrow, limber toes curving around the thicker ropes running along the bottom of the bridge.

The bridge swayed and shivered, and Khith stopped, clutching the hand-ropes tightly. It had crossed this bridge before, in daylight, with experienced guides to shepherd it over the chasm. Never by moonlight. Never when it was already trembling with exhaustion and nearly witless with fear.

Another shout, much nearer now, lent strength, and Khith wavered forward, trying to balance, trying to gain speed.

The thick rope beneath its feet seemed impossibly narrow.

The scholar was nearly halfway across now. Below it the river thundered and spray from the white water shimmered in the moonlight.

Hurry! Don’t look down!

Khith lurched forward, almost running, fixing its eyes on the end of the bridge. Its world narrowed to those last few strides to be crossed …

And then it was there, on the other side!

Khith whirled around, unslinging its pack, only to see one of the jagowas burst out of the forest and leap onto the bridge. The animal crouched low and started forward, snarling.

No!

Khith grabbed its sheath-knife out of the pack and began frantically sawing at the rightmost hand-rope. It was gasping for breath and could not look at the animal that crept so determinedly forward. The scholar had never in its life inten-tionally harmed another creature.

Hthras did not eat meat, did not even keep animals for fur or milk. Everything they used, they grew.

With a
spung!
the hand-rope parted. The bridge tilted sideways, and the jagowa, with a scream of fear, fell …

And fell.

Khith was sobbing as it sawed on the next rope. Minutes later the last of the bridge was severed, and the scholar watched the limp rope structure twist and turn in slow motion before it came to rest against the opposite cliff.

Looking up, it saw its people on the other side of the chasm. They stood there, regarding the scholar across the nothingness, and Khith realized that it had literally cut all

ties with its own people by its action. There would be no forgiveness, no pardon … ever.

Slowly, stumbling with weariness, Khith managed to shoulder its pack. Then it turned and staggered into the forest, leaving its homeland and its people behind.

Despite the late winter chill outside, the interior of Shekk Marzet’s tent was stuffy from the braziers burning dried yak dung. Seated on a cushion at the back of the tent, where she had a good view of the Shekk and his many guests, Thia blinked and blinked again, fighting drowsiness. It was essen-tial that she stay awake. Shekk Marzet needed her, and the old man had been very kind.

It had been nearly five months since her escape from Boq’urak and the twin ziggurats. She’d staggered into Verang half dead from terror and exposure, aware that her novice’s robe and shaven head marked her as a runaway from the twin temples.

The town was nearly deserted, all the good citizens relaxing by their fires after supper. The only other person out on the streets had been Shekk Marzet. Seeing the staggering, exhausted girl, he quickly wrapped her in his cloak and hustled her into his town house before anyone could see her.