She stood utterly still for the time it took the setting sun’s rays to edge their way across the surface. When they slipped away, they disappeared all at once as if snuffed out. The reservoir’s west border was perfectly aligned for the effect.
She took a deep breath – had she even breathed the entire time? She felt so calm. All her worries struck her as trivial, completely unimportant. What mattered any of it in the face of such an immensity of time and space? She felt as if she could remain here for an eternity contemplating such questions. Perhaps, she reflected, the sensation derived from the satisfaction of having solved at least one of the mysteries of Jakal Viharn, city of gold.
* * *
It took some time, but eventually Pon-lor had to admit that he’d lost the trail of the yakshaka, Hanu. He’d backtracked a number of times searching for sign. Now the light was fading and the marks of his own passage helped obscure any certainty he might have felt regarding the trail. As night gathered he gave it up as worthless. He’d try again in the morning. The question, then, was what to do for the night.
Night in Himatan. Alone. Not a promising prospect. He’d got through last night by climbing a tree and tying himself in. Even so, he’d hardly slept. Large night hunters prowled all through the hours, chasing other things. Sudden bursts of calls or screeching announced close escapes, or panicked last struggles. His training might allow him to forgo sleep for some time, but there was no dire need to delve into that yet.
Off to one side the ground rose. He headed in that direction. Here he found a hillock of sloping talus and broken stone topped by a steeper rising cliff riddled in caves, now mostly choked by the accumulated detritus of centuries. Mature trees crowned the rise, gripping it in gnarled fists of roots. Underfoot hard talus shifted, grating, and he bent down to select one of the fragments. He brushed it off: it was flat and slightly curved. It was not stone. It was earthen pottery.
Startled by this he staggered slightly, backwards, to peer up and down along the slope, a good two man-heights above the surrounding plain.
Great ancients! A garbage heap the size of a village!
No, the remains of a village. Generation after generation squatting in the same spot, dropping their litter and tamping it into the ground. Simply astounding. And now, the slow work of the ages conspired to wipe from the surface even these last vestiges of humanity’s presence.
He crouched down before the largest cave. It actually had the look of an animal burrow but he could not be sure. He brought out a cloth bag containing the bulbs and fruit he’d collected through the
day
. One by one he inspected his finds. Some he rejected, not certain they conformed to Thet-mun’s descriptions of safe foods. The rest he replaced in the bag then brushed the dirt from his hands. Now for a fire. Humanity’s best defence against the chills and the horrors of the night. Yet was it not also humanity’s challenge, as well? The unmistakable brazen shout to the night: come and get me? Something to consider into the long hours.
He went to collect firewood. Once he’d assembled a pile great enough to last the night he set to priming the fire. Not a skill high on the Thaumaturg curriculum. Dry tinder he clumped together, along with a strip of cloth torn from the edge of his robes. Now for the application of his true training: the focusing of power on to one tiny point, thereby agitating the particles of the field of Aether that pervaded all creation. This in turn should bring into being … he turned all his mental energy upon the task, easing out his breath in a long soft hiss, his hands hovering just above the tinder … a spark.
A tendril of smoke climbed into the air. He blew, lightly, teasing the tiny ember to life. It caught and soon he had a proper fire blazing. And just in time, as thunder crashed overhead and the night’s rain came pattering down upon him. He used larger branches to push the fire in towards the shallow cave’s mouth. Here he sat under the cover of the curved wall of pressed litter, cross-legged, his back to the dirt, the fire just before him. Vines hung about him, running now with the rain. The petals of a clinging orchid brushed his hair like the lightest of kisses.
He pushed a bulb on to a stick and extended it over the fire.
Tomorrow. He mustn’t lose the trail. She must come to see reason tomorrow. How many days did she think she could just wander blindly about? It was ridiculous. Worse, it was the petulance of a child who would not admit she was wrong.
After he ate, he eased himself into the position of recuperation, hands on his lap, fingertips touching to channel his energy, and closed his eyes.
Late in the night, a huge hunting cat approached. It lay on its stomach hidden among the cover at the bottom of the hillock. Through slit eyes Pon-lor watched the flames reflected in its luminous pupils. After a time a noise sounded from the night: a crash as of wood breaking. The cat chuffed a cough and eased itself to its feet. Long curved fangs caught the light as it turned and glided away.
The crash was followed by another, and another, each closer. Soon an even more massive beast came lumbering up on to the slope of the
hillock
. It walked on two legs but was barely humanoid. Colossal, it was, with tough plated skin the hue of ash. Its legs were thick trunks ending in great splayed feet. Its head was a hairless stump. Two tiny eyes no larger than pinheads regarded him from atop a mouth that sported broken and misaligned jutting teeth.
‘Who are you,’ it boomed, ‘to light a fire here in the depths of Himatan?’
Wisdom of the ancients, what was this thing?
One of the Night-Queen’s monstrosities, of course. But beast, man, or other? Was it, as his teachers insisted in the Thaumaturg Academy, the degenerate offspring of centuries of indiscriminate miscegenation – or, perhaps, as he was beginning to suspect, the product of a lineage of survivors adapted and attuned to this region’s peculiar demands?
‘Someone who would dare to do so,’ Pon-lor shouted down. ‘Think you on that.’
In what Pon-lor took as a hideous attempt at a grin, the creature’s lips drew back even further from its forest of jutting teeth. It waved him down with a trunk-like arm. ‘I believe you are a poor lost fellow. Come here and let us discuss this. You can even bring your bright licking friend.’
‘The rules of the jungle dictate that I decline your kind invitation. Especially when we have not been introduced.’
The thick ledge of brow above its eyes rose in surprise. ‘You do not know who I am? Easily put to rest.’ It thumped its chest. ‘I am Anmathana. Earth-shaker!’
‘Good for you. I am Pon-lor, master of flesh.’
The monster frowned as if bemused. ‘Master of flesh? Ah, I see you are one of those invaders. Come down and I will show you the way, little lost magus.’
‘Thank you but I am quite comfortable here. Do not trouble yourself.’
‘No? You will not descend? This is not a difficulty. I will come up.’ He raised a sledge-like foot and jammed it into the slope. He grabbed hold of a nearby tree but in a groaning crash the entire thing tore out of the ground. He angrily threw aside the trunk, began kicking his next foothold.
Unease took hold of Pon-lor’s chest but he strove to keep his voice level. He focused his concentration upon the creature. ‘How can you climb when you are so short of breath?’ he called.
Anmathana paused, reared his bullet-head. ‘What’s that? Short of breath? I am not—’ He pressed a spatulate hand to his chest, frowned.
‘Your lungs are full of tiny globes, my friend,’ Pon-lor said. ‘These distil the life-essence from the air when you inhale. But they cannot do so when they are full of fluid.’
The giant coughed, his eyes rolling wildly. ‘What—’ he managed, gurgling and choking. He clutched at his throat.
‘Retreat and you will breathe again!’
Glaring impotent rage, Anmathana took one step backwards.
‘Very good. Keep going.’
He took another step, fell to one knee, his chest working. Pon-lor eased his concentration. The creature drew a ragged hoarse breath. He raised his blunt head. ‘I will crush you for this,’ he gasped.
‘It is foolish to be angry with some one or thing for merely defending itself.’
Anmathana waved a snarling dismissal, turned and stamped off into the jungle. Pon-lor heard the diminishing reports of fists smashing like battering rams into trees as it went.
After a time the jungle was quiet again – as quiet as it ever was as the calls of night hunters rose once more to the moon, insects hissed and chirped, and bats flitted overhead.
‘Well done!’ another voice called, this one from above. Pon-lor scanned the darkened treetops. ‘Can’t have the fellow dragging us all down, can we?’ Pon-lor spotted the source: a blob of night, all shaggy round the edge, at the notch of a thick branch.
‘And you are?’
‘Varakapi is the name.’
‘Brother to our friend?’
‘Only very distantly,’ the creature answered, not at all amused. ‘I have been watching you.’
‘To what end?’
‘To pose a question.’
‘Oh?’ Pon-lor heightened his concentration once more, though he sensed nothing inimical for the moment. ‘And that is?’
‘What is Himatan?’
Pon-lor blinked, rather startled by such simplicity. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. That is all. You could say the question is nothing – yet everything.’
‘How very … philosophical,’ Pon-lor answered drily.
‘As a trained Thaumaturg, I thought you would appreciate that.’
Pon-lor narrowed his gaze upon the shaggy blotch. Long pointed elbows stuck out. The shape reminded him of a huge ape or monkey. ‘And the purpose behind this question?’
‘It is for you to muse upon. I hope you will find in it fertile ground for speculation.’
Frowning now, Pon-lor turned his attention to the dying fire. He pushed more of the dry brush in upon it. Speculation? What speculation could such a question evoke? When he looked up once more the beast was gone.
Well. That is one thing Himatan is: very odd. One might find oneself nearly pushed into a monster’s mouth at one moment, then challenged to philosophical debate at the next!
He hoped this was the last of his visitors; he’d been planning to get some rest. Leaning back, he shut his eyes. He tried to calm his mind, but the simple plain question kept circling there round and round.
What is Himatan?
* * *
Okay, Murken Warrow, it’s time to get a grip on the situation. Everyone’s countin’ on us to get their puckered sphincters out of here. And who am I lookin’ at to pull that off? Fuckin’ useless Sour! We’re sunk. Absolutely had it. Might as well slit our own throats
.
‘So, Mage – what now?’
Murk flinched, almost tottering over from where he crouched studying the jungle. He peered up, squinting in the blinding sunlight, to Burastan glowering down. He straightened and as he did so darkness gathered in his vision.
Gotta get some food in me
. ‘What do you mean?’ His answer sounded defensive even to his ears.
The tall Seven Cities woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which way now?’
‘East.’
Burastan leaned forward to bring her sweaty grimed face closer to his. Speaking very slowly, she asked: ‘Which way east?’
Murk looked away. He swallowed though no spit would come. ‘Have to talk that over with the scouts.’
‘You do that.’
‘If you’re all done …’
She waved him away. He went to find the scouts – and Sour.
These days the Thyr mage was spending all his time with the scouts. Murk had come across him actually teaching them how to pick flowers! Could you believe it? And these hardened veterans of Seven Cities and the Quon Insurgency campaigns. Murk couldn’t credit it. When did this happen?
It all started going haywire after they spent time with Oroth-en and his people.
Sour took to it like a fish to water an’ now he’s runnin’ around wearing leaves and preachin’ all this living off the
land
crap
. Well, as far as Murk was concerned it was all going to end badly for them. A pig can’t be a tiger no matter how hard it tries, as his old pa used to say.
He found his goggle-eyed partner showing a plant to four scouts. He was explaining something about the roots being edible at one time of year, the leaves at another, and the berries fine so long as you boiled them.
‘Boil them in what?’ Murk asked.
His partner blinked up at him, one bulging eye higher than the other. ‘Well … you could use a helmet, I s’pose. If you had to. Fill it with water and drop in heated stones.’
‘An’ who’s going to do that?’
The fellow shrugged. ‘Better than starvin’.’
Was it really, though? Eating grasshoppers and beetles and such? There was no way he’d do that.
Sour nodded to the scouts and they melted away among the broad drooping leaves. Droplets of rainwater pelted down in loud explosions all round them.
‘Which way?’ Murk asked.
‘I’m thinkin’ on it.’
‘Thinking,’ Murk repeated sceptically. ‘You’re thinking. Well … time’s passing, you know.’
‘I know.’
Murk studied him. There was something new about the man – beyond the natural colouring and dirt powders he’d painted himself in. He wore leather sandals that appeared to have been cut from someone’s cast-off armour. His only other covering was a loin wrap of ratty old cloth. The paints had smeared and faded and become mixed with sweat to a smooth layer over his limbs, chest and face. His hair was a greasy mat that was so muddy he looked as if he’d stuck his head into a hole in the ground.