Kaavl Conspiracy (2 page)

Rolban

Koblan Continent

Seventhday

Tagma leaves whispered,
and Methusal Maahr quickly swiveled her head, her heart pounding.

Nothing.

A cool breeze swept the small, sun-kissed plateau. It was still light outside, and too early for the dangerous wild beasts to creep from their caves. All the same, she sharpened her senses.
Kaavl
would help her spot the beasts before they charged within attacking range.

Concentrating hard, she stared at the far bluffs, which were stamped in black against the pale blue, eastern horizon. Where were the flying beasts now?

There! Eyes sharpened by the rigid practice of kaavl discriminated the outline of black wings against the black bluffs.

Bluffs. Renn had fallen to his death from a cliff last night.

Tears stung her eyes. This morning a runner had discovered the remains of Renn’s mangled body at the base of Rolban’s nearest cliff. Wild beasts had licked half of his bones clean. His death had shocked the community. It had devastated her.

What had happened? Why had he visited the crop plateau last night?

His funeral this morning had been surreal. To Methusal, it had felt like the memorial service had happened much too
quickly, but funerals always took place immediately in Rolban.
In the past, disease outbreaks had been a problem, and so the community had passed a law requiring that the dead be buried as quickly as possible.

At the gravesite Renn’s only living parent, Liem, had stood as still as a stone, his features blank.

Grief still felt like claws shredding Methusal’s soul.

Stop it. Concentrate. He’d want it that way.

Renn had been pragmatic. A careful thinker, with unexpected flashes of wit. They’d been good friends for their entire lives.

She let the hot tears fall. Surely he was in a better place now. He wouldn’t want her to cry over him, either. If he was here, he’d probably say, “Life goes on, Thusa.” Then he’d smile. “Remember that baby whip I hid in your jacket? Almost bit your finger off. Count your blessings I’m gone.”

Methusal swallowed against the ache in her throat.
Kaavl.
Kaavl would deliver her from the grief. For a while. Maybe running would help, too.

She climbed down the rocky hillside, fiercely trying to concentrate into a kaavl state of mind. Soon she’d be ready for the Kaavl Games, which would take place in a few days.

Even better, she’d soon deliver an unpleasant surprise to her arch rival.

As she focused, Methusal became
kaavl
; intensely aware of the late afternoon sun toasting her skin, and the sharp stones biting into her thin, multi-patched moccasins. Tall, thick tagma bushes dotted the plain, networked by thick gnarled roots that rippled across the surface of the flat, dry brown earth. A whisper of movement tickled her ears, and dry leaves rustled.

A whip beast was stalking a round, furry apte. Muted gasping noises interrupted the peaceful quiet.

The sounds of struggle, and of death.

Death. Again, thinking about Renn stole the breath from her lungs.

Concentrate.

An innocent animal fought to live. She could help it.

The squeaks sharpened, and she slipped closer.

There.
Behind a low scrub bush. A whip beast, as long as Methusal’s leg and two handbreadths wide, clenched a small apte’s stubby leg between its large, triangular teeth. The whip beast wriggled, readying for the final, lunging gulp. Although whips had no legs or arms, they could spring as high as a man’s waist. They could kill an adult human.

Methusal couldn’t bear to see the apte suffer and die. No more death. Not today.

Ignoring her fear, she plucked up two large rocks and analyzed the situation.

The apte’s markings looked familiar. In particular, the thick white stripes bisecting its black ears dredged up an old memory. Had she nursed this apte to health three years ago? That one had broken its leg.

It didn’t matter. The whip would lose its supper. Silently she moved closer and slipped behind a thick, prickly tagma bush that was nearly as tall as she was. Concentrating into pinpoint focus, she flung the first stone.

Whack.
It connected with the whip’s snout. The animal’s jaw slackened, but not long enough for the apte to scramble free.

Mean, rock-like black eyes swiveled to Methusal. Fear stabbed her. She ignored it. With swift precision, she hurled the second rock. It
thwacked
hard between the whip’s eyes. The leathery, worm-like creature jerked and fell. It lay motionless, its mouth still clamped around the apte’s leg.

Suspicious that the beast was playing dead, Methusal grabbed the kaavl stick from her belt. The weapon was as long as her thigh, two fingers thick, and made of dense, strong hardwood. She poked the whip beast. It didn’t move. The apte whimpered.

“I hear you.” Methusal wiggled the stick between the whip’s teeth and levered the locked mouth open. The apte scrabbled free, dragging his injured leg behind him.

Using the stick, Methusal rolled the whip further away. When she stepped closer, to give it one final push, it convulsed in half and sprang at Methusal.

She gasped, and jerked up the weapon to block the attack.
The whip’s heavy weight hit the stick, and Methusal staggered. Automatic kaavl training kicked in, and she whipped the stick right and left, repeatedly smacking the beast’s head. Its sharp teeth snapped empty air, and its body convulsed, preparing for another spring. Panic slid into the corners of her mind. Trying to block it out, Methusal struck the beast again and again, focusing on the cold precision needed.

The whip stopped moving. Blood trickled from its mouth.

Trembling, she stepped back a few safe paces. The whip beast lay inert, but she didn’t trust it. It was probably just stunned. Its hide was thick.

The apte had stopped a length away, perhaps to watch the drama. Or maybe because its leg hurt. He stared at Methusal.

She knelt and murmured, “Come here.” Extending one hand in a loose fist, she used the other one to pull a healing coltac leaf and leather kaavl strip from her pocket. She always carried medical supplies, just in case she injured herself while practicing kaavl. Or in case she came across an injured beast, like today.

The deadly whip, on the other hand, could fend for itself.

The apte hopped closer, using his good leg as a spring. “That’s it. Come on,” she whispered. The animal stopped. His fur brushed against her knee. She smiled and said softly, “Know what? You remind me of my pet. His name is Chup Chup.”

Few animals feared her, and it was a gift she cherished. Only once had she been bitten, and that was by a feral wolmite which had been crazed with pain. He would not let her touch him. A week later, she’d found his carcass licked clean by the wild beasts. She still wished she had tried harder to save him.

With firm, gentle fingers, Methusal grasped the furry apte and examined his short leg. No breaks, thankfully. That would require longer care, and her parents had forbidden her to bring home another animal. Although she’d turned eighteen a few months ago, Methusal would live at home until she married. She snorted softly. If that ever happened. No men had shown the slightest amount of interest in her so far. Although that hurt, she valued her freedom far more.

She broke the coltac leaf in half and dribbled thick juice over the bloody mess. After adhering the leaf on top, she swiftly wound the leather around the leg and tied it closed. There. By the time the apte gnawed off the bandage, the wound should have healed.

The apte nosed at the leather and scurried away.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Methusal stood and gazed north, across the desert plain, studded with scattered, thick bushes, to the cave entrance into the mountain. The metal gates were flung wide to drink in the last fingers of sunlight. Home. Rolban. The sun hung low over the western plains. Twilight would arrive within minutes. And so would the wild beasts. Her flesh prickled, and she slipped back into kaavl to listen for scrabbling claws.

A whisper touched her ears. Flying beast wings sliced the sky far overhead. And a faint rustle of stones tickled her ears. Too late, she sensed a presence behind her.

“Practicing, Methusal?”

She spun. “Behran.” How had he managed to sneak up on her like that?

“Looks like you need more practice.” Deep blue eyes grinned at her, and familiar annoyance surged. However, she made certain her expression did not betray it.

But he knew. The tall young man continued to grin. “Need pointers?”

“No. Thank you.” The words ended in a snap, which she regretted. Kaavl contenders needed to remain self-disciplined and courteous at all times.
To everyone,
and that included her arch rival, Behran
.
She’d be disqualified from this year’s Game if she didn’t meet that high standard.

“Fair enough.” His straw colored brow flicked up his sharply cut face. “So. Think you’re any good yet?”

She silently counted to three, which wasn’t anywhere near long enough. “You still don’t think I have what it takes, do you?”

Behran opened his mouth.

“You still think I’m that silly thirteen-year-old…”

“Who worshipped the ground I walked on?” A grin twisted his lips.

“Until I realized how conceit…” Methusal shut her mouth. Why was she allowing him to provoke her?

Jaw set, she turned and strode for the wide, dark cave which lead into the heart of the mountain. For five years she’d endured Behran’s condescending put downs. But no longer. Soon she’d surprise him with her kaavl skills.

He easily kept pace. “I’m sorry about Renn.” His serious tone surprised her.

“Me, too.”

“I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a good person.”

“He was.” Methusal blinked back stinging tears and wished Behran would stop talking. She didn’t want to cry anymore, and especially not in front of her adversary.

Renn.
Renn was nothing like Behran; neither physically, nor, more importantly, in character. Stocky Renn had been dark-haired and brown-eyed, whereas Behran was blond, blue-eyed, and whip lean. Renn grew up in Rolban, but Behran and his parents had immigrated from Dehre five years ago, when he was seventeen. Renn was a steady friend.
Someone she could trust. Behran Amil was nothing but trouble.

“Thusa?” She became aware that Behran was watching her, one brow lifted in that familiar, annoying manner.

She frowned.

“You look lost.”

How was she supposed to respond to that comment?

Behran continued to watch her. Was he making fun of her? Or, based upon their history, needling her? Methusal would not allow him to provoke her again.

And then a welcome memory made a tiny smile tug at her lips. She remained silent, however. He’d learn about her step up the kaavl ladder soon enough. Surprise would give her the edge in the Game a few days away.

His next words turned her smile upside down.

“Congratulations on reaching the Tri-level.” His eyes
gleamed at her surprise. “I have the right to know my competitors
at the Tri-level. Remember?”

“Of course.” Although her voice sounded calm, inside she felt anything but. Another point for Behran. How had she forgotten that vital piece of information?

Behran’s mouth twitched, but finally his gaze turned serious. “I look forward to competing against you.”

“It’ll be interesting,” she allowed, and managed, just in time, to squash another small, anticipatory smile.

“Probably.” His grin reemerged.

What was he really thinking? They’d never competed against each other in the Kaavl Games before, because they’d ranked at different skill levels. Did Behran consider her a serious threat yet?

If not, he soon would. Methusal slipped back into kaavl, and tried to ignore Behran and his attempts to aggravate her.

She took in every nuance of her environment. A cool breeze kissed her skin, and licked up swirls of dust from the tan, cracked surface of the plain. Fading sunshine glinted off of the tiny, gray-green tagma leaves that rustled in the strengthening breeze. The cool, rainy season had ended three passes of the full moon ago. It had not rained since. They had another pass to endure before the hot season, sprinkled with a few rain showers, began.

Behran interrupted her thoughts. “Almost forgot. Petr wants to talk to you about Renn.”

“
Renn?
Why?” Like a fist, grief again gripped her heart. And whispers from this morning slid through her mind.
A bloody mess.
Renn’s body had been shredded by a pack of wild beasts. Methusal hadn’t seen it. But she couldn’t stop herself from imagining it, and it made her feel sick to her stomach.

Behran shrugged. “It sounded urgent. I’m supposed to make sure you arrive in a timely manner.”

“Message delivered. I’ll go on my own.” She’d rather not go at all. Any meeting with her uncle boded ill—for her.

“You don’t want to enjoy my company?” His lips twitched.

Methusal couldn’t summon the willpower to smile at his small joke.

“All right.” Behran’ serious blue gaze bored into her, as if evaluating the heavy grief weighing upon her soul. “I really am sorry, Thusa.”

Behran finally sprinted off for Rolban’s entrance, but the tension coiling in Methusal’s gut did not ease. She tried not to think about Petr, and what he might want. Instead, she assessed Behran’s fast lope. His speed would be difficult to beat in the Kaavl Game. But skill would help her win it, she told herself. Not speed. Behran was right about one thing, though. She’d made a major slip, not detecting him earlier. She did need to practice more.