Farlander (24 page)

In an instant the man was up, and fighting for his life.

*

‘Boy!’

Nico came awake with a start, gasping for air.

Ash was shaking him lightly, holding out a cup of steaming chee. Nico blinked at him dumbly. For some seconds he was unable to move; then, with an effort, he sat up.

He turned his head to see where they were. Yet another high valley, it seemed.

‘Easy, boy,’ said the old farlander, fixing Nico’s hand around the mug. There was a wildness in his eyes this morning.

‘Are we there yet?’ Nico asked.

‘Almost. How do you feel?’

Nico groaned in response. He felt particularly delicate, and a dull pain throbbed behind his eyes. His clothes were in a fine mess, too, torn and smeared with dirt and leaves. Ash looked no better, his robe in tatters, his face grubby and sprouting the beginnings of a grey beard. ‘How long . . . ?’ Nico began, not sure how to phrase the rest of his question.

‘Five days, I think – maybe more. You did well. You held it together.’

Nico sipped the hot chee, though he could barely taste it. He badly needed to scrub his teeth. He studied his surroundings more closely now that his eyes had cleared of sleep. A high valley divided down its length by a broad stream that meandered calmly past their camp on the far side of the two mules grazing a few yards away.

His gaze followed the stream upwards, past the rushes that massed along its curving banks, towards the yellow grassland that spread beyond them across the whole of the valley floor, all of it rippling in a morning breeze that carried the scents of hot keesh and frying garlic, and occasionally a hint of distant laughter. At the very head of the valley sat a large building of red brick, with a tower rising at one corner. Around it huddled a small forest of low, gold-coloured trees.

They took their time striking camp that morning. Nico sat quietly and let the chee soothe his empty belly, idly observing the view as their small campfire kept the grassflies at bay. Ash shaved and washed himself in the stream, standing waist-deep and naked, occasionally whooping at the shock of the cold water. Nico pieced together what little he could recall of the previous five days . . . mere fragments of memory, vivid scenes framed by nothingness and, even more out of place, a strange dream of a man he had somehow known . . . None of it made sense to him.

He eventually decided that he really did need to wash himself and scrub his teeth. He cast away these futile recollections along with his clothes, drew from his pack a bar of soap and the little covestick, and went to join Ash in the slow, frigid flow of the mountain water. It was deep enough to swim in some parts, and he passed much of the morning like that, swimming or floating on his back, the sunrays bouncing down on him from high overhead, the occasional shy rainbow trout making dashes around his toes. His stiff, overstretched muscles gradually loosened in relaxation. His many cuts and grazes stung with the welcome freshness of the chilly current.

As Nico dried himself with his tunic, shivering in the cool breeze, he found himself staring down upon a small bush growing by the side of the stream. It was the same species that had sent them on their strange journey through the mountains for the last four or five days, with its oily black berries and white markings. Nico drew Ash’s attention to it.

‘Yes, we make use of its berries again when we leave,’ explained the old man. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, on noticing Nico’s obvious concern, ‘we will be here for many moons yet.’

*

They were being watched, Nico sensed, as they began their ascent from the valley floor on muleback. Ash noticed his searching gaze, as he scanned nearby rises of rock. ‘You waste your time,’ was all Ash had to say, before spurring his own mule onwards.

It took longer than Nico had expected to work their way up to the monastery. Smoke rose lazily from the building’s many chimneys, and the shutters of glassless windows stood open to the day. As they got closer to the small forest that surrounded it, they began passing walled gardens tended by figures in black robes; men of many races, sweating in the hot mountain sun, some laughing or chatting as they worked, others solitary and focused only on their tasks.

Many hailed Ash as he passed by, raising their fists in salute. Others bowed with palms pressed together in the traditional greeting of the Way, the sami, their mouths turning into soft smiles.

‘Ash!’ cried an old farlander, who flashed a gap-toothed smile as he pranced towards them on bare feet, his hands clutching the filthy hem of his robe. Of a similar age to Ash, he possessed the same unusual features, though stockier in size and sporting a top-knot of black and silver hair. ‘By Dao, I thought you dead and buried in the ice by now,’ panted the R
shun.

‘How are you, old friend?’ inquired Ash.

‘Better, now that you have returned to us safely. And not alone, I see.’

‘This is my apprentice.’ Ash jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards Nico. ‘Nico, greet this old fool, who goes by the name of Kosh.’

The man’s eyes widened ever further as Nico offered him a weak smile. ‘A quiet one,’ observed Kosh with good humour.

‘Hardly. He only speaks when it is least called for.’

‘Well,’ said Kosh, ‘I will leave you both to get settled. But we must have a drink tonight, and some tales of your journey.’ The man slapped the rear of Ash’s mule to send it on its way. Nico followed, turning in his saddle to see the R
shun pull himself erect and bow respectfully towards the departing back of Ash, while they moved on.

‘These trees . . .’ Nico began, as the mules crunched along a gravel path leading through the forest. Small trees, covered in a golden brown bark, with canopies of copper leaves and reddish blossoms shaped like stars. He had never seen their like before.

‘Mali trees. They come from the Isles, too. From them we gain the seals.’

‘From their seeds?’

‘Yes.’

‘The seeds grow into the seals?’

Ash sighed. ‘The seeds
are
the seals, Nico. Although these particular trees you see around you . . . they are all barren, and they will bear no fruit themselves.’ The old man tugged at the dead seal he still wore around his neck. ‘I will find a suitable spot at the edge of the forest, and bury this one. In a short time, shorter than you might believe, it will grow into one of these same trees but, like the rest of them, it will yield no others, for it will have sprouted from a seal that no longer breathed.’

‘So this forest . . . all of these trees . . .’ Nico stared open-mouthed at the forest all around him, which was cast into silence by a momentary lull in the wind. ‘They were all grown from seals of the dead?’

‘Yes – every one of them.’

*

Men were practising archery in the open area in front of the monastery, on a wide swathe of grass kept short by a few wandering hill goats who seemed wholly unperturbed by the arrows flying through the air right above their heads.

Nico watched as the oldest of the archers, the only farlander amongst them, stepped up to take his turn. He might have been smiling, though it was difficult to be certain – for his skin was so ancient, and his back so stooped, that his face hung about itself as though in the process of falling off. The other men quietened as the farlander notched his bow. Without looking up, he inhaled deeply and held his breath. As he exhaled, he straightened his spine, before he drew the string and let loose the arrow in one single fluid motion, not moving from this final position until his arrow dropped out of the sky and struck the very centre of the distant target.

‘Hah,’ exclaimed Ash approvingly, as the mules carried them onwards.

They clopped through a narrow entrance to one side, and entered a square of dusty earth bordered on all four sides by the monastery building. At the centre of this courtyard stood another stand of mali trees, seven of them in all, surrounded by a picket fence painted white. A strange silence hung in this confined space. It centred on a dozen robed figures sitting cross-legged on the ground, each with his back to a tree. The men were deep in meditation, and paid no heed to the new arrivals, save for one, a bearded Alhazii dressed in a sleeveless cazok. He yawned at the sight of them, and stood and strode towards them through the morning light.

‘You’re back,’ said the big man, as they dismounted from their mules.

‘Baracha,’ acknowledged Ash, by way of greeting, and the Alhazii bowed his head slightly.

‘You look well for a man supposedly dead.’

The mule yanked the reins in Ash’s hand, impatiently. ‘It was close,’ he confessed, hushing the restless animal. ‘What news here since I have been gone?’

‘Nothing much of interest.’ Baracha shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘We’ve all been praying for your safe return, of course.’ He placed a hand on the nose of Ash’s mule, as he spoke, and stared straight into the animal’s eyes until it stiffened and became still.

‘Who is this?’ he asked, drawing Nico’s attention back from the meditating R
shun in the middle of the courtyard. This close, he could clearly see the many tattoos scrawled across the man’s dark skin, tiny flowing Alhazii script, covering him entirely, even his bearded face. Holy verses, no doubt, as he’d heard these desert men liked to sport. The dark eyes slid carefully across Nico, before returning to Ash.

‘My apprentice,’ explained Ash, and Nico noticed the subtle change in Baracha’s expression, his facial muscles tightening in surprise for the merest instant.

Baracha smiled as he again fixed his gaze on Nico. ‘He has much to live up to, then.’

He smiles falsely
, thought Nico, and decided this man was laughing at him. A spark of anger flared inside. It made him want to prove himself in some way.

Nico pointed to the stand of mali trees in the centre. ‘Why do they stand alone like that?’

‘Alone?’ replied Baracha, turning to look.

‘Master Ash told me earlier how you plant your lifeless seals in the forest outside. I was wondering why these seven grow here.’

‘Can you not guess?’ tested the Alhazii.

But Nico already had, and that was why he had asked. ‘I would guess, then, that these trees were grown from seals that still . . . breathed. That means they bear seeds themselves.’

Baracha tilted his head sideways. ‘I can’t place your accent boy, Where are you from?’

‘Bar-Khos,’ Nico informed him, surprised by the pride he heard in his own voice.

‘A Mercian? I might have known, from one so small and malnourished.’ Again the Alhazii smiled, as if laughing at him.