The Skull of the World (5 page)

With her red-tasseled staff in one hand, she bowed low to the Old Mother and then to her enemy. The Khan'cohban warrior gave her the most curt of acknowledgments then attacked in a flurry of swift movements, her dagger in one hand, her sharp skewer in the other. Isabeau made no attempt to return the attack, merely swaying out of reach while she watched intently for any clue to her enemy's strengths and weaknesses. An icy calm had settled over her. She breathed slowly and steadily, ignoring her enemy's cruel jibes, her feints and pyrotechnics. The turning of the planet seemed to slow until each heartbeat was like the muffled pound of a drum, her enemy's spins and kicks and blows as slow as a stately minuet.

Isabeau felt as if she was one of the watchers in the dark cave, not one of the combatants. She was still, the maypole around which her enemy swung and danced. She felt she knew every tactic the warrior would use before she herself did. Not one blow had connected, yet the Khan'cohban warrior was fighting with all her skill and training. Floating somewhere beyond her body, Isabeau knew her enemy was growing both tired and desperate, only her anger fueling her savagery. She was blind and deaf with anger, her breath rasping in her chest, while Isabeau was using the minimum of energy to evade her enemy's attacks. Somewhere deep inside she was conscious of surprise at herself, for she had never been considered a skilled fighter. All her teachers' training had come together, though, into this one pure flame of being. Isabeau was at one with the coh.

Her enemy lunged at her recklessly and Isabeau sidestepped gracefully, so that the lunge turned into a stumble. Isabeau could have cracked her staff down on her cousin's back, but instead she stood back courteously, waiting for her to recover her balance. The warrior snarled at her, mad with rage, and flung her dagger straight at Isabeau's heart. Without thought Isabeau's hand came up and she caught the knife only inches from her breast. She was unable to help grinning with amazed pleasure, and tossed the knife out of the fighting circle. The warrior flushed red with humiliation and drew her little mace with a curse. Her attack grew more frenzied, and Isabeau had to move more swiftly to avoid being struck. Sighs or soft groans came from the crowd, a sign of their intent involvement.

The warrior detached the head of the mace from its handle and swung it round her head till it was a blur, then sent it whizzing toward her opponent. Isabeau ducked and it flew over her head and into the crowd, out of the fighting circle. Quickly the warrior dived toward Isabeau, trying to take advantage of her weak stance, the skewer flashing down. Isabeau rose from her crouch into a somersault that took her high into the air, over her enemy's head. The warrior crashed into the floor and lay for a moment winded. Isabeau waited patiently, both hands resting on her staff.

This time the warrior rose slowly, her face twisted with hate, and circled Isabeau warily. She no longer underestimated the apprentice witch. They feinted for some minutes, the warrior unhitching her eight-sided
reil
from her belt. Isabeau breathed deeply and calmly, her eyes fixed on her opponent's. She did not bother to watch her hands or her body, knowing her enemy's intentions would be signaled in her eyes. Suddenly the warrior flung the eight-sided star and it came curving toward Isabeau's throat with a faint hissing sound. In the same instant her enemy lunged forward, the skewer held low. Isabeau arched backward, the skewer sliding along her back without breaking the skin, the
reil
missing her throat by a whisker. The crowd gave an involuntary gasp for it had seemed impossible that Isabeau could have avoided both. She took her weight on her hands and flung her body over, landing again on her feet. Again her enemy stumbled off balance and again Isabeau took no advantage, waiting for the Khan'cohban to regain her equilibrium. The First Warrior smiled grimly.

The warrior picked herself up and looked at Isabeau with some puzzlement. She weighed the long skewer in her hand and called out gruffly, "Why do you not strike a blow? Do you not wish to prove yourself?"

Isabeau said gently, "You are my kin. I do not need to strike a blow to prove myself." Despite herself, there was a stress of pride in her intonation and the warrior flushed redder than ever and hefted the skewer over her shoulder, throwing it with deadly accuracy. Isabeau had to fling herself to one side to avoid being spitted, and she heard the wicked hiss of the
reil
as it spun toward her. She flung up her hand and caught it, and there was a gasp of astonishment, for such a thing was near impossible, given the shape of the weapon and the speed with which it spun. Isabeau tossed it out of the fighting circle and got to her feet without haste. Her enemy was standing staring at her with her mouth open in disbelief. Of all a Scarred Warrior's weapons, the
reil
was the most prized, for it returned to the warrior's hand as if it had a life of its own. It took great skill to throw and catch the
reil,
and no one had ever known it to be caught by its target.

There was fear in the warrior's eyes now, and consternation. Isabeau bowed to her, leaning lightly on her staff, and slowly her enemy unhitched her little axe and approached her warily, almost reluctantly. They engaged again, though this time both were on the defensive. Isabeau used her staff to block a blow, then heaved it upward so her enemy fell backward. The skewer clattered out of her hand, and Isabeau turned and pointed at it, and it slid across the floor and out of the fighting circle. Now her enemy had only the little axe, a tool more often used for hacking firewood and ice than for fighting. She got to her feet slowly, gathering together her will and her courage, and attacked Isabeau again. There was no rage or bravado left in her face or her stance now, only a sort of puzzlement. It took only a few seconds for Isabeau to disarm her and toss the axe out of the circle, then they stood, watching each other, Isabeau's hands at rest on the head of her staff.

Without rancor, the red-haired warrior said, "You could have killed me." Isabeau nodded. "But you struck no blow at all."

"You are my kin and the heir to the Firemaker," Isabeau said softly. "I would not be the one to destroy the gift of the Gods of White to their children."

"So you do not want the godhead," Isabeau's cousin said. "I thought. . ." She hesitated a moment, then bowed to Isabeau, lifting one hand to cover her eyes, the other hand bent outward in supplication. Isabeau brought two fingers to her brow, then to her heart, then out to the sunlit day.

"I give you my apologies," the red-haired warrior said dearly. "I confess to fear, vanity and pride, worst of deficiencies. I was afraid the Firemaker regretted her acknowledgment of us, the descendants of Khan'fella, she who was left out in the snow for the White Gods. I wanted to be the only heir and thought to eliminate any threat to my position. I challenged your truth-telling in order to kill you without consequences to myself, knowing that to kill you outside the fighting circle would be to call the punishment of the Gods of White upon me. I ask your forgiveness and offer you the right to order my punishment."

Isabeau made the gesture of acceptance, then said, "Your challenge was honest, though, for you truly did not believe I was telling the truth. It was a fair challenge therefore, and I have proved my truth and my honor to you and your pride. There is no need for punishment."

"The stranger-child is merciful," the Old Mother said harshly. The color rose in her daughter's cheeks and she bowed her head, saying,"What then is your will, Old Mother?"

"Your humiliation is punishment enough, I think," the red-haired woman replied, "for indeed I do not think any warrior of this pride has ever been beaten so shamefully. Many times I have warned you against conceit and quick temper, and at last you see the crevasse that can open beneath you as a result of such faults. Remember, though, that you are in debt to the stranger-child for she had the White Gods within her and could have killed you a number of times. Wait upon her now like a bond-servant and do what she orders, and know that one day the time will come when she will demand payment of the debt."

Isabeau's cousin bowed her head and made the gesture of acceptance, all her freckles drowned under her high color. Isabeau restrained a gesture of protest, for she knew the Old Mother had just given her daughter's life into her hands. Debts of honor were taken very seriously on the Spine of the World. She could order her cousin to throw herself from a cliff and she would have to obey, isabeau had no wish to put her cousin under such an obligation, but she knew she had no choice. The Old Mother had spoken and the red-haired warrior had accepted her words.

"It is the seventh scar of the warrior you should wear upon your brow," her cousin said. "I have never seen such a fighter as you and the Pride of the Fighting Cats is famous for its warriors."

"I am no warrior," Isabeau said. "Truly the White Gods had their hand upon me today. I have never fought like that before and I never shall again."

"The White Gods must have some dread purpose for you, to guard and protect you so well," her cousin said in awe. Isabeau nodded, troubled and afraid.

"My name is Khan'katrin," her cousin said very low. "It means 'swift with a blow as the fighting cat'."

Isabeau was honored. The Khan'cohbans did not tell their names lightly. "I do not yet have a Khan'-cohban name," she replied, "but when I do I shall share it with you. I am called Isabeau in my own land. It means 'god is my oath'."

"Indeed, the gods do honor you," Khan'katrin said. "Come, you must be weary. I shall serve you and when you have eaten and rested, I shall fill your empty bag with grain and fruit and guide you to the edge of the Fighting Cats' land to make sure you do not go astray."

Isabeau thanked her and made her farewells to the council circle.

"May the White Gods aid you in your quest and keep the wolf from your path," the Old Mother said. Isabeau made the gesture of farewell and then followed her cousin out into the gloomy dawn.

The wind blasted along the glacier, driving sharp needles of ice into every gap in Isabeau's clothing. Huddling her hood as close about her face as she could, Isabeau stumbled along, her vision filled with whirling snow. In her mind, she heard the words of the Soul-Sage's riddle in endless repetition.

"Speechless, you shall speak my name.

"Must you speak? Why then again,

"In speaking you shall say the same."

Although the verse became a sort of mantra, muttered in time with her dragging steps, the words became increasingly meaningless with each repetition. As the words' significance receded, so grew Isabeau's sense of hopelessness.

A thin, dark shape emerged from the whiteness, and Isabeau gave a little gasp of relief. A tree! She must be coming to the edge of the ice plain. Trees meant shelter and a chance to rest. On the plains the snow was packed so hard she had not even been able to dig herself a little ditch in which to crouch, even if she had been willing to risk being buried in snow.

She waited out the worst of the storm inside a lightning-blasted tree and woke to a deep, profound silence. After hearing nothing but the unceasing shriek of the wind for the last four days, the silence was a blessed relief. Isabeau dug herself out of the hollow tree and crawled out into a silver and black landscape. Overhead huge stars hung, while the untouched snow stretched in all directions, soft as velvet.

Isabeau smiled wearily and strapped on her skimmer. Although she knew the dangers of skimming at night, she could not pass up the first clear weather in days; besides, her night sight was exceptionally good. The snow slid past easily and her chilled limbs began to warm. Buba flew on ahead, the only motion in all that still, silent world.

They came over a slight rise and sped down the slope ahead, Isabeau's heart giving a little bound as she saw the dark peak of the Skull of the World rearing ahead. She had been afraid she had lost her way in the storm, having nothing but her intuition to guide her.

By the time the sun rose, the mountain filled most of the horizon, its tip wreathed in clouds. The glacier was narrow now, and steep. Isabeau had to turn and recross every few hours, gaining as much height as she could each time. Then it became too steep and she had to take off her skimmer and climb.

She crossed the ridge, the keenness of the wind snatching the breath from her mouth. The Skull of the World filled the sky, towering above the other peaks around it. She scrambled down the rocks quickly, seeing her destination so close, perhaps only a day's journey away. As she neared the snow again, Isabeau heard a strange keening sound, like a crowd of women sobbing and wailing. All the hairs on her body rose. She moved forward cautiously, straining to locate the source of the weeping. She came around a bulge of stone and saw, far below her, a river winding its way through a wide, deep valley. It ran swiftly over stones, a pure clear blue. Steam twisted above its ruffled surface, pale and thin as ghosts.

Isabeau smiled, recognizing the geography. She was in the land of the Pride of the Frost Giants, and that river was called the Lament of the Gods. She had often heard it described in the tales of the storytellers. The river wept, it was said, in grief for her lover the sun, whom the gods murdered in a jealous rage. Later, the gods were sorry and allowed the sun to be reborn once a year, but he could only travel the world for a few short months before again dying. Their love was still cursed, though, for when the sun came to kiss the river once more, the heat of his presence killed their daughter the mist.

Isabeau knew from the tales of the great naming-quests that she had to follow the Lament of the Gods to its source, but first she needed to find some way of getting down the cliff. It was growing dark so Isabeau began to look around for somewhere to spend the night. She left the path and scouted up one of the deep ravines that cut down from the mountainside. Buba flew ahead, almost invisible in the gloom.

The ravine had been cut by a fast-moving stream which dashed down the rocks in a series of little waterfalls. Here and there the stream widened into pools, wreathed with mist and bound all about with snow. When Isabeau paused to drink she was startled to find the water was hot and rather bitter on the tongue.

Suddenly she crouched down, unmoving, all her senses straining. Ahead she could hear guttural shouts and laughs, almost drowning out the snarl of some young animal which, high-pitched and desperate, spoke of terror and pain. Isabeau bit her lip, then quietly crept forward until she could peer over a pile of boulders to see what was beyond.

A snow-lion cub was crouched within a circle of squat, grotesque creatures who were tormenting it with their spears and clubs. The cub's white fur was wet and matted, and stained here and there with blood. One leg hung uselessly, but still it hissed and snarled, lashing out with its sharp claws at any of its tormentors that came too close.

With broad flat noses, slitted eyes, huge flapping ears, protruding yellow teeth, skin the color of a dead fish, and big feet with long, spreading toes, they were repulsive creatures. Isabeau thought they must be
uka,
a Khan'cohban word meaning "demon" and used to describe all the ugly, dangerous creatures of the mountains. In her own mind she named them goblins, for they looked just like an illustration in one of her old fairy books.

She knew she had to save the cub. There was no question of leaving him to be tortured to death by the goblins. The only question was how. Although short, the goblins were wiry and strong, and armed with a wide assortment of clumsy weapons. Isabeau chewed her thumbnail then, in a flash of inspiration, raised her hands to her mouth and gave the terrifying roar of a snow lion. The sound reverberated around the ravine, causing snow to slide from the rocks above and fall in a rattle of stones. The goblins stared around in terror. Poking a baby snow lion with their spears was one thing, facing an angry full-grown male another altogether. As Isabeau roared again, they gave a shriek of dismay and ran away up the ravine.

Isabeau ran out and gathered the cub up onto her lap, purring in reassurance. At first he cringed away from her human scent but she dragged off her glove and let him smell her hand, purring all the while. He sniffed suspiciously, his tail gradually stopping its lashing. She rubbed his head and he cuddled into her fur coat, kneading and purring in contentment. She looked about her swiftly, then stood up. staggering a little under his weight. Although only a baby, he was still heavy. Buttoning him up in her coat, she turned and hurried away down the ravine, knowing the goblins would come back as soon as their bravado returned.

Floundering through the snow, her arms aching with the weight of the whimpering, squirming cub, Isabeau followed Buba's soft hoots. At last the little owl found her a den under a fallen tree and she thankfully crawled inside. Conjuring a light, she examined the injured cub more closely and bit her lip in dismay. The goblins' spears had been filthy and even the most shallow of his cuts would become infected if she did not clean them properly. Reassuring the cub in his own language, she reluctantly built a fire, melted snow in her little pot, and crumbled a few dried herbs into the bubbling water. It took a lot of coaxing before the cub let her touch the wounds, and by the time she had finished, her hands were bleeding from innumerable scratches.

It was late and snow had begun to fall again. With the lion cub curled against her side, his little heart beating rapidly against hers, Isabeau drew her heavy coat closer about them both and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

The goblins found them just after dawn. Isabeau had thought they were safe thanks to the snowfall which had hidden her tracks. The lingering smell of her smoke drew them, however, and they came hollering and shrieking up the gorge, waving their weapons. Woken from her sleep by Buba, Isabeau peered out from under the fallen tree, remembering all the dreadful tales the storytellers told about the
uka,
who were said to consider Khan'cohban flesh a great delicacy, particularly if it had been well tenderized by a long, slow, painful death.

She scrambled back into the shelter of the fallen tree and drew one of the half-burned faggots out of the ashes of her fire. Pushing the lion cub behind her, she made the faggot burst into flame just as the goblins swiped their spears under the tree trunk. With shrieks of fear and rage, they leaped back and Isabeau thrust the burning torch at their faces. The goblins retreated and she gave one of the terrifying war cries of the Khan'cohban and chased after them. They ran squealing but circled around to jab at her from the rear. She swept the torch around, throwing a ball of flame at the nearest goblin with her other hand. Although he dodged, his coat of uncured animal skin took flame and he had to roll shrieking in the snow to put it out. A few more feints with the burning torch and the goblins retreated once more.

"Well, that's the goblins taken care
o',"
Isabeau said to the baby lion. "I must be on my way, though. What am I meant to do with ye then?"

He gave a little mew and she said consideringly, "I wonder where your parents are. Are ye an orphan? Or did ye just wander away? Ye were wet through. Had ye fallen in the stream? If so, ye cartna have wandered far. Your den must be near where I found ye. Shall we go back there?"

He yawned widely, his pink tongue curling, then began to limp away down the gorge.

"So ye want to walk on your own four feet, then," Isabeau said. "Bide a wee, laddie! I'm no' quite ready."

The cub turned back to look at her, then sat with his fluffy tail curled around his paws. Isabeau let the jealous little owl crawl inside her sleeve, tied her skimmer to her back and thrust her supplies back in her satchel, then began to retrace her steps. The lion cub bounded along before her, hampered only a little by his bandaged paw.

They arrived back at the ravine and clambered along the rocky shore of the stream, keeping a close watch out for any more goblins. Although the sun shone in a blue sky overhead, the gorge was shadowy with many boulders and crevasses where the hideous creatures could hide.

Isabeau caught the sharp odor of lions and her step slowed, though the lion cub gave a little meow of excitement and bounded forward. Isabeau tested the breeze to make sure she was downwind, then crept forward, peering over a huge round boulder.

The gorge widened out into a sunlit corrie with caves in the walls and flat rocks around a little spring of water which bubbled too swiftly to freeze over, despite the snow that heaped the rocks all around. A lion was drinking at the spring, his thick white coat blending in with the mounds of snow. He was huge, with a magnificent black-edged mane and great golden eyes. Behind him three lionesses basked in the sunshine, their cubs playing by their side. To one side another lioness prowled about anxiously, sniffing the rocks.

As the injured cub rushed forward, she bounded down the rocks, deadly and graceful. She bowled the cub over with one heavy paw, then sniffed him all over. The smell of Isabeau's ministrations caused her to snarl and tumble the cub about roughly, and he whimpered a little and lay meekly under her paw, belly up. The lion raised his majestic head and walked ponderously over to where the lioness crouched over the cub. He sniffed the little lion all over and then lifted his lip in distate. Isabeau slowly crept away, glad to see the cub had found his parents but not willing to risk talking to them. Although she had been taught the feline dialect as a child, and the little lion cub had seemed to understand her, she had never before tested it on a real live lion.

Suddenly she heard the deep call of the lioness and the sound of swift motion. Terrified, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the cub's mother racing after her, golden eyes glowing, red mouth open. Isabeau screamed and fled. Then a massive paw struck her between the shoulder blades and she fell into the snow, banging her elbow on the rocks.

Shoulders hunched, arms over her head, she buried her head in the snow, expecting the agony of tearing flesh. When nothing happened she looked up cautiously. The lioness stood over her, warm breath clouding in the frosty air. Isabeau half rolled, trying desperately to purr, though her throat was dry with terror. The lioness bent her head and nudged Isa-beau's shoulder. Then she delicately licked Isabeau's cheek, her tongue as rough as sandpaper. She was purring deep in her throat, the sound as loud and contented as a hive full of bees. Isabeau purred back and the lioness kneaded her shoulder briefly but painfully, then stood back, allowing Isabeau to gingerly get to her knees. Isabeau cautiously put up one hand and stroked the lioness's plush white fur, and she in turn rubbed her head against Isabeau's palm, purring still.

"It was my pleasure," Isabeau said huskily. "I'm glad I was able to help."

The lioness nudged her affectionately then turned and prowled away, her paws sinking deep into the snow. The cub frisked about her, attacking her black-tufted tail which swung gracefully behind her, and pretending to nip at her legs. Isabeau got to her feet, her throat thick with emotion, and saw the lion was watching her, his golden eyes inscrutable. She bowed to him and backed away, her legs shaking. At last she was out of sight and could turn and run, unable to shake off the fear the lion would decide she looked like a pleasant way of breaking his fast.

The sense that she was being followed did not dissipate as she hurried along the edge of the cliff, though she could hear nothing but the wail of the river and the occasional lonely cry of an eagle hovering far above. She turned often to scan the path behind her, but it was narrow and twisting here, following the bulges of the rock, so she could not see for any great distance. It began to angle downward sharply so she had to jump down the rocks in several places, once slipping on a patch of ice in her haste. Isabeau heard stones rattle behind her and quickened her pace.

She reached an open stretch of snow with a wonderful view down to the river but did not pause, though her stomach grumbled with hunger. Some irrational fear drove her on, glancing often over her shoulder. Then she saw movement on the path several bluffs behind her. She stared intently and recognized the squat figures of the goblins, running swiftly. There were twenty or more of them now and terror seized her. She broke into a run, casting around for somewhere to hide. It was difficult to run in all her furs, with the skimmer and satchel banging on her back. Soon she was panting and sweating. From her sleeve she heard Buba protest sleepily, but she blundered on. She came to a stand of pine trees and leaned against one, breathing harshly as she looked behind her. Then the goblins broke from the shadows and ran toward her, waving their clubs and spears, screaming with delight.