The Children of the Sky (43 page)

“Those stupid Tropicals played into our claws on that one,” said Screwfloss. He didn’t sound critical, more like he was stating a small correction.

Gannon started laughing. “True. But Nevil says that’s the reward for good planning. He tricked them into running like the guilty. Who’d have guessed Godsgift would leave part of himself behind? He thought he could get a hearing from Woodcarver and damn us all. Fortunately, we got to him first.”

Ravna looked at Gannon and felt sick. “And you grabbed those Children and killed their Best Friends?”

Some remnant of decency tugged at Gannon’s face. “Not me personally.… Bad things happen, little lady. You should never have been put in charge. Now fixing things is a mess.”

Amdi’s voice came up from beside the wagon. “We didn’t know, Ravna.”

Gannon gave a wave in Amdi’s direction. “The fatso pack is probably telling the truth. He and Jefri have been very useful, but not for the rough things. I know they weren’t supposed to be in on this current operation.”

Ravna closed her eyes for a moment and leaned back against the top of the wagon. It wasn’t hard to see why Jefri hated this boy so much, but, “Why, Gannon?”

Gannon looked back at her. It was clear he understood what she was really asking. For a moment she thought he would make some sadistic retort, but then something seemed to crumple inside him and desolation stared out at her. “Once upon a time, I was smart. Back in Straumli Realm, back in the High Lab. It was easy to understand what was going on. Then I woke up here, where I understand nothing and all my mind tools are gone. It’s like somebody cut my hands off, poked out my eyes.”

“All the Children have that problem, Gannon.”

“Yes, some more and some less, even the ones who don’t realize it. And you know what, little lady? Countermeasure took our home from us, exiled us here. You want to make that permanent. Well, it won’t work. You’re going down. If you cooperate, help our little Tinish friends, maybe Chitiratifor’s boss will let you live.”

Gannon stared at her for a moment, his face full of pain, for once free of sadism. Then his gaze flicked away, and after a moment he relaxed into his usual lazy bluster. He waved at the forest all around them and said to Screwfloss, “So what makes you think these woods are dangerous? I’ve been on expeditions before. I can spot weasel nests and weasel-made rockfalls. Chitiratifor has a pack scouting around us all the time. We’ve spotted one or two cotters’ cabins, but no organized settlements. So what’s coming down on us?”

“There’s the bloodsucking gnats. They make arctic midges look like friendly puppies. We’ll see them as soon as the weather gets a little warmer.”

“Gnats? I’ve heard of those.” Gannon’s voice was full of jolly contempt. Then an uncomfortable look came to his face. “Or do you mean these ones carry some kind of disease?”

Out of Gannon’s line of sight, Ravna noticed Screwfloss exchanging looks with himself, as if wondering how big a whopper he could put over on the idiot human. Then he appeared to pass up the opportunity: “Oh, no. Well, not that I know of, and you humans are mostly immune to our diseases anyway—at least that’s what
Oobii
tells you, right?”

“Er, right.”

“Anyway, the really bad diseases are in the Tropics,” continued Screwfloss. “The biting insects we’ll see are just extremely annoying. What makes this here variety of forest dangerous is the—I guess the simplest translation is ‘killer trees.’ Or maybe ‘arrow trees.’”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those,” said Ravna. Amdi made an agreeing sound. Killer trees had been part of some of Pilgrim’s stories.

Gannon made a rude noise. “Bullshit. Where are you getting the know-it-all?”

Screwfloss gave him a haughty look. “I was woods-runner before I entered Flenser’s employ. I’m a renowned expert on the rift valleys.”

Ravna remembered Woodcarver describing this pack as one of Flenser’s whack jobs. Whatever else, Screwfloss was an expert at telling tall tales.

Gannon had a narrower skepticism: “This patch of forest looks like bannerwood. It’s rare stuff, but I’ve seen it before. I hear it makes great building timber. Or are you saying these arrow killers are something rare, hiding, ha ha, like in ambush?”

“You have my point, sir—but not quite the way you may think. Bannerwood doesn’t like to be cut or chewed on—oh sorry, my lady Ravna, I don’t mean to be an ignorant medieval. I know that trees can’t think. I just don’t have the patience to dance with jargon. I leave that to Flenser and Scrupilo. In any case, only a certain percentage of this type of bannerwood has deadly capabilities.”

“What percentage?” said Amdi.

“It varies. It’s a very small percentage, though the killers are more common in these rift valley crazy patches. I imagine it depends on the nature of local herbivores and such.” He glanced at Amdi. “You, genius little ones, could probably figure a good estimate.”

“Probably,” said Amdi. He seemed unperturbed that Screwfloss constantly mocked him as “little ones.”

In any case, the gibe gave Jorkenrud a rather distracted chuckle. “I was supposed to be rescued before we got this far,” he said. “How long can it take Nevil to pry the dirigible loose from Woodcarver’s dogs?” He seemed to be looking at the forest with a more personal interest now; it might not be someone
else’s
amusing doom. The trees appeared to be of a single type, tall and graceful evergreens whose needles ranged from short and slender to long and thick. “Okay,” he said, “some of those needles could make arrows—if you cut them down and had a proper bow for them.”

“Ah, but there’s no need if you’re the killer kind of arrow tree. Next time we stop, climb up to the lowest branches on one these trees—one I say is safe. You’ll still be able to see the tensioning knot at the base of the longer needles.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” said Gannon. “You’ve told Chitiratifor about this?”

“Oh, yes. He’s spreading the word to the others. See?” Up ahead, Raggedy Ears was indeed lecturing the front wagoneer, waving emphatically at the trees. “Hei, but don’t worry. Very few of the trees are deadly, and if we follow a few simple rules, we should get through fine.” Screwfloss didn’t say anything more for a while; he definitely had Flenser’s talent for teasing his listeners. They crossed over two more of the spring freshets, chilly snowmelt spilling down to the river. In places the beautiful, sometimes deadly trees came close to the trail, forcing those on foot to walk behind or in front of the wagons. Amdi was looking in all directions, but he seemed more curious than fearful. In this new forest, there was scarcely any undergrowth, just the great, vaguely fungal bushes that popped up around some of the trees. Ravna could almost imagine Amdi estimating the cover they might provide, figuring the fields of fire, generating a million questions that would break into the open if Screwfloss let him dangle long enough.

Gannon was also looking all around, and it was he who finally broke the silence, “Okay, you bastard, what are those ‘few simple rules’?”

Screwfloss chuckled, but he dropped his teasing game. He had lots of definite advice: “Notice all the open space? Those spaces are deadly. You can’t run far when you are full of arrows. If there was even one of the killer variety within bowshot, and if it got triggered, that would be enough to kill a two-legs. If there’s a cluster of the killer variety, then once one gets triggered, the whole mob goes—arrows coming from dozens of trees. You spacers would have lots of explanations once you studied them. Maybe there’s pollen that gets released and that’s a signal to others. Anyway, they all go off.”

“Are they aimed?” said Amdi.

“Not really. There’s a ripple of shooting that sweeps away from the beginning tree. The point is, there could be
thousands
of arrows. They can cut down whole packs, right to the last member. So rule one is, don’t stay in the open. See those bushes at the base of the trees? Those are the tree’s flowers—ha, the equivalent of a pack’s crown jewels. Very few arrows will strike there. So the best strategy whenever we’re stopped for any length of time is to stay near the bushes. Be ready to dive into them if arrows start flying.” Screwfloss shrugged. “That may be too late if you’re a two-legs, but it should be a life saver for us packs.”

When Screwfloss finished his advice, Gannon was thoughtful and silent. Amdi scouted ahead and around, sniffed at some of the bushes. Now he was in question mode. Amdi wanted to know everything Screwfloss could tell him about what would trigger a shooter attack and about how clusters of shooters might be arranged. Screwfloss was full of details, a weird combination of technical analysis and medieval folktales.

Amdi ate it all up and had even more questions. By the time Chitiratifor signaled that they were stopping to make camp, Jorkenrud’s interest in safety procedures had been satisfied in mind-numbing detail.

Apparently, Chitiratifor had absorbed some brief form of this advice at lunch time. Ravna could tell by Raggedy Ears’ nervous uncertainty in setting up the night’s campsite.

As Ravna climbed down from the wagon, Amdi was standing all around her. “You know,” he said, his voice quiet and casual but not really secretive, “this really doesn’t make any sense.”

Then he trailed off in the direction of Jefri.

Half an hour after they had stopped, Gannon and Jefri were at work with the evening housekeeping. Chitiratifor had decided on where the campfires should be but he was still ordering the wagons and draft animals moved around, trying to find the safest formation. Screwfloss accompanied Chitiratifor, providing his expert advice. Every time the two packs came within earshot Ravna listened with interest. One thing about Screwfloss’ story, it might distract Raggedy Ears from planning the murderous entertainment Amdi feared.

“Yes,” the ever-informative Screwfloss was saying, “you have to distract the trees. The things they react to are vibrations and physical attack.”

Raggedy Ears objected: “But we don’t eat these plants; we’re not even loggers. We won’t hurt the trees.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t matter, my lord. The killer trees are more common here than I’ve ever seen, and I suspect that the way ahead will be even worse. Tonight we have some good luck, an opportunity to practice proper technique. On this side of the road we’ve found a small area that’s free of the killers, but our sounds will eventually cause a cook-off—that’s a human technical term, my lord, for when weapons spontaneously discharge. We’ll need to provoke a partial cook-off just to protect ourselves.”

“The troops aren’t going to like that.”

“Present it as a perfectly safe test, my lord—which is exactly what it will be. We’re camping on the west side of the trail, near the protection of the root bushes. I suggest you cause some small trauma to the trees on the east side.”

“Trauma?”

“I mean, cause some wound to the trees. You can have a single member do the job, using a wagon to provide it with safe cover. The rest of us can take shelter by the root bushes on this side of the road. We’ll get a good idea of what to expect on the road ahead.”

Raggedy Ears emitted a thoughtful noise, but the two packs were walking away and she couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. The wagons eventually were parked, and the kherhogs sheltered a little behind the wagons. Jefri and Amdi were out of sight when Gannon and Chitiratifor came strolling in her direction. He was carrying a utility axe in one pair of jaws. Ravna suddenly realized that Raggedy Ears had figured out how an entertaining murder could help solve his other problems.

The pack dropped the axe on the ground in front of her. “You!” he said. “Go across the road and make cuts on the middle tree.”

“You’ll do what Chitiratifor told you!” Gannon waved her back to the east side of the path and away from the wagons. “Now take the axe, damn it.” He lobbed the utility axe across the trail. The spinning blade sank deep into the ground two meters from Ravna’s feet.

At the sound of Gannon’s voice, Amdi and Jefri came around the fodder wagon. They must have been feeding the kherhogs. The weather was so warm now that there was no need for ferment-warming, but feeding the hungry animals was still a messy job—the kind of work that even Gannon managed to avoid.

“What are you doing with Ravna?” Jefri shouted. There was a good ten meters separating Gannon from herself, so this was evidently no ordinary form of harassment.

“He wants me to chop a tree,” Ravna shouted back.

“
What?
”

As Amdi and Jefri ran toward her, Chitiratifor moved casually into their path. He’d pulled battle axes from his panniers and idly swung them back and forth. Ravna noticed that the wagoneers had unlimbered their crossbows.

Gannon waved Jefri back. “Hei, Jef. Keep cool.”

Jefri looked across the trail at where Ravna stood, alone. His gaze swept up, across the trees. Abruptly, he turned on the nearest of Chitiratifor. “You
need
her! That’s the whole point of this expedition.”

There was a lazy smile in Raggedy Ears’ aspect. He flipped a battle axe adroitly. “You’re wrong. I don’t need the Ravna two-legs alive. I have a good use for her now. More use than I have for most two-legs.”

Gannon gave a nervous laugh and said to Jefri. “Just go along with it, Jef.”

Jefri glared at him and then around at the packs. The air was still for a moment, and Ravna saw that Amdi had been absolutely right. With Remasritlfeer gone, Chitiratifor was free to complete
his
mission.
Please don’t try to fight them, Jefri.
Amdi seemed to feel the same. He uttered a loud screech and tried to hold Jefri back by grabbing at the cuffs of his pants.

“Fine,” said Jefri—and reached toward the nearest of Chitiratifor. “Then give me an axe, too.”

“You craphead!” said Gannon.

For an instant, Ravna thought Raggedy Ears might slash at Jefri’s hand. Then the pack gave a rattling laugh and flipped one of the axes out of its mouth.

Jefri snatched the axe from the air. He kicked loose of Amdi’s grasp and stomped across the path to stand by Ravna. Amdiranifani followed all around.