Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (73 page)

An awful comfort stole over him, a dreadful security in leaving the uncertainty of future choices. He looked about him, embracing the final reality that existed all around. He caught the violet and black and cerulean world in snatches through the creature’s mortal embrace.

And at the furthest reaches of his mind, a wry thought halted his surrender:
I am being plucked from my own body like a root from dry ground.
And on its heels came another thought:
I am more than a single shoot. And I mean to honor the sacrifice of the hands that gave my own a chance in the soil.

So he fought back against the snatching of his life from his body.

But the burn and tear of spirit from flesh became too exquisite to bear, and soon real death seemed to beckon.

Then Sevilla’s hand was ripped free of its grasp upon his heart. Dark thoughts and dreams receded in a blinding rush, and he crumpled to the forest floor with his friend, who had forced the creature’s release.

He knew in his agony that a part of him had been lost, stolen.

And something else gained.

*   *   *

Drops of rainwater struck Tahn’s cheek. He woke and more rain fell into his open, troubled eyes. The knit of intertwined branches obscured his view of the sky, and caused the rain to gather in the leaves before falling. The fire had burned out, hissing as rain plopped into the cooling embers. He wiped his face, spreading the moisture to try to refresh himself. He lay unmoving and listened to the sizzle of the storm as it struck the upper leaves of the wilds. He’d never been to the port of Su’Winde, but Hambley had been there once in his youth, and described the sound of waves crashing against the shore as nearly the same as a good storm whipping against the bark and limbs of Hollows pine. This was that sound.

Tahn wanted to lie and let the rain fall on him and lose himself in the sound that seemed to hide him. But Sutter let out a weak moan, and Tahn forced himself to sit up. He could discern Nails only as a familiar dark shape in the recess of night-shadow beneath the canopy of trees overhead. Tahn tried to stand, but his legs cramped under him. So he rolled over and dragged himself to Sutter.

His friend lay clutching his chest. No wound marred his clothing; no blood stained his hands.

“Are you all right?” The words sounded foolish as soon as they came out.

Sutter drew breath to speak, but coughed in the attempt and winced in pain, grabbing his chest with both arms. He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball until the convulsions passed. Weakly he whispered, “Cold.”

“I’ll get your blanket,” Tahn said and tried again to stand. His legs refused, and he sat hard next to Sutter.

“Inside,” his friend added, touching his chest.

Tahn looked back to where Sevilla had disappeared into the trees.
What if he returns? What if I had tried to release an empty bow?
He scanned the trees around them and satisfied himself that they were alone. They couldn’t stay here. Maybe the strange creature whose hand he could not feel would not come back. But maybe there were more of whatever he was.

“We have to get out of here,” Tahn said.

Sutter nodded, his eyes still shut tight. He peeled his lips back and spoke through gritted teeth. “I can’t ride.”

The rain began to fall in earnest, growing louder in the flat leaves and running to the ground like miniature waterfalls. The fire coals hissed and steamed more loudly, sending waves of smoke into the air. Tahn folded his knees under him and again sat up. He looked around for long branches to build a litter, and spotted a deadfall not far from the horses. He tried a third time to stand, but his legs held him for only a moment before tumbling him forward into the gnarled surface roots of the trees. One knee cracked hard against a large, knotted root. His head pulsed with the rapid beating of his heart, blurring his vision. Each breath seemed to rush into his blood and push his heart faster. He shook his head and dragged himself through the mud and mulch to the dead wood. Lying on his side, he pulled two long limbs and one shorter piece from the tangle.

Working against the growing pain, he retrieved a length of rope from Jole’s saddle. He lashed the wood together in a slender triangle, and rigged a sling between the poles before laying his blanket across it.

He then gathered their horses’ reins, hoping to secure the litter and find the north passage.

The wilds lit as lightning flared in the sky above. A mere second later, a powerful clap of thunder boomed around them. The air seemed to explode with the smell of ozone, rushing as though propelled by the boom. Sutter’s horse bucked and tried to tear free. Tahn held on, the reins pulling him up like a puppet whose leg-strings have been cut. The horse reared again, this time tearing the leather from Tahn’s hand, slicing his palm. In an instant, the horse sprinted into the darkness of the wilds and was gone. Jole rolled wide eyes and stamped about, but did not jerk his reins from Tahn’s hand.

When he got Jole back to Sutter, he attempted to hitch the litter to Jole’s saddle horn. But when Tahn stood, his head swam, and he fell to the ground. He beat at his legs, but could feel nothing, the numbness spreading into his fingers and back.
What’s happening? I don’t have time for this.
He buried his face in the mud and screamed his frustration, tasting the richness of the soil and the decay of last year’s leaves, ground mites, and worms. The earth muffled his cry.

Tahn crawled back to Sutter to roll him onto the litter. As he pulled at his friend’s shoulder, Nails opened his eyes, a pained but clear look in them. “Leave me.”

“What?” Tahn asked, his head ablaze with pain.

“You can’t make it hauling me like this. And I can’t take the ride over the roots.” Sutter grimaced, trying to smile. “How do you like that, Woodchuck, undone by the very things I tried to flee.”

Tahn ignored him. He pulled Sutter’s shoulder over and laid his friend on his back. Tahn then worked himself onto his knees and heaved Sutter into the litter. He retrieved the blanket and covered him. His friend was wet, but the wool would keep him warm. Tahn looked back at Jole. How would he hitch the litter and mount his horse?

Another burst of light flickered, the thunder seeming to come before the light faded. The noise eclipsed the patter of rain and the sound of his own heart in his ears. Rainwater ran into his eyes and plastered his hair to his cheeks and neck. In his mind he tried to recall the words of the man from his dream, and touched the familiar shape on the back of his hand. All he could think of was a funnel of water driving a bull elk to a muddy, watery death … and the moment he did not avenge Wendra in her birthbed.

His friend began to lose coherence, babbling, “The spirit is not whole, Tahn. It’s not whole. It can be divided. Given out. Taken. Small portions separated from the whole…”

Tahn paused to listen to his friend. A strange truth resonated in Sutter’s demented ramblings. Then Sutter passed out. At least the pain had left his face. Tahn rasped breaths, his throat pulsing now like his head, aching and burning. He wondered if Sutter might dream of waking to a still dawn, cloudless and warm.

Tahn dropped to his belly and inched his way to Jole. Clenching one end of a rope between his teeth, he cut another length and tied the other end of it to the apex of the litter. Then he took hold of the stirrup and hoisted himself up. On his feet, he could not tell that he stood, save that his eyes told him so. He hooked his arm under his knee and lifted his foot toward the stirrup. He jabbed his boot in and took hold of the horn. His hands went numb and he could not feel the jut of the saddle against his chest. With one great effort he thrust himself up over the saddle, and shimmied around until his leg fell onto Jole’s other flank. He managed to get his other boot tucked into its stirrup, pulled the rope from his teeth, and wrapped it around the horn. With clumsy fingers, he tied it, then took a deep, searing breath.

On the ground, water now traveled in small streams, pooling in low hollows. Tahn was glad Sutter had fallen unconscious; he would not feel the jouncing of the litter across the roots.

Last, Tahn cut yet another piece of rope and fastened it around his own waist. He then tied the ends to the saddle horn, as well.

Clucking to Jole, he let down the reins. He would trust his old friend to take them ahead and out of the wilds. It was all he could focus to do. Trees passed, one the same as the last. His eyes burned as if they, too, had fever, and moments later he could no longer feel his arms or chest. He slumped forward and tried to keep his balance, whispering encouragement to Jole until the numbness entered his face and took his ability to speak.

On they went. Tahn remained awake, but felt like little more than a field suit in his saddle. The rain did not let up, and the thunder shook the forest floor as though the lightning shot up from the ground. Flood pools accumulated in low areas, and Jole trod through them, casting his head about, seeking direction in the absence of a path. The wind soughed in the trees, stirring wet leaves and dropping rain in sheets over them. Tahn hoped Sutter would not be thrown off the stretcher because neither of them would ever know.

After what seemed like an endless number of hours, like stepping from behind a curtain, Jole emerged from the trees. Less than four strides from them the northern rim rose up into the blackness. Jole paused for direction, and got none. Tahn made a thick sound deep in his throat to urge him on, and Jole turned right, following the rock wall. Shortly, the wall opened on the left into a narrow canyon like the Canyon of Choruses. Rainwater ran in a shallow river from the mouth of the narrow aperture into the wilds. Tahn moaned again, and Jole turned into the canyon and took them away from Stonemount.

The sound of the rushing water reverberated endlessly up the high stone walls along the narrow road. The shadows were impenetrable in the canyon, leaving the rushing of water to guide them. The roar of the rain and current blotted out thought, and only the constant ache in Tahn’s head remained. Each pulse of his heart reminded him that he was alive, and soon the fevered ache became a grateful prayer to him.

But would Sutter live?

The night stretched on, and Tahn wondered how long Jole could keep going.

Finally, the canyon ended. Tahn moaned again, and Jole understood to stop. The storm had abated a bit, the heaviness of the drops lighter and their fall less pounding. Tahn turned his head as high as he could and looked east. He imagined the sun burning away the clouds, touching the treetops with orange light and steam rising from the soil as the rain evaporated in the early morning sun. He imagined the smell of green things and the stirring of bird wings. The familiar image might have warmed him in a time before the Bar’dyn came to the Hollows. Sitting on Jole’s back without feeling in his body, he now hoped to live only because Sutter would need his help.

Tahn found himself glad for the cloud cover. Somehow today he had no need of the sun. Whatever beginning it intended for him, for the land around them, could lay cloaked as far as he was concerned behind the veil of dreary light that passed through the thickness of the storm. He wanted the sun to come, but not with the same earnestness as in days past. He simply cared less.

He needed to get Sutter to shelter, but if his own arms did not regain feeling, he would need someone’s help. Atop Jole’s back, he fell asleep thinking of Wendra, and was glad he could not feel the wind that began to riffle his sodden hair.

*   *   *

“Ho, there, do you need help?” a voice said. “It is night soon. Do you intend to sleep in a ditch?”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Fever Dreams

Tahn opened his eyes. Jole stood close by, the walk gone out of his legs; his head bowed the way Tahn knew it did when his old friend was tired. Evidently, Tahn had finally fallen from his saddle, the rope he’d fastened around the saddle horn slipping its mooring and leaving him to tumble to the ground. Above, the sky remained dark with rain clouds, but Tahn noticed the leaves of trees sprouting delicately on thick branches. Wherever this was, Jole had worked long to bring them here.

A set of legs strode into his field of vision. Tahn tried to raise his head, but the numbness remained complete, leaving only his eyes useful. The boots were hard leather, lashed with black cords that had been tipped with silver links to prevent fraying. Rolling his eyes, Tahn looked up into a rotund face.

“Do I look like an angel, my friend?” the man said, his voice gentle but crisp. “Because you have the look of death in your cheeks. I daresay you’re not capable of assisting in your own rescue. No man sleeps in the mud when he has power to avoid it.”

Tahn rasped something out.

“And coherent, too,” the man replied. “Never mind, you’ll be wanting to know about your friend. He’s in bad shape, but no worse than you. I’m going to assume you’ll be glad of some help. Now you may grunt some protest, but I’ll live with your hatred better than the thought of you dying here, picked clean by highwaymen and catching shivers deep to the bone.”

The man hunkered down beside him, and Tahn followed him with his eyes. The gentleman’s rich, russet cloak parted as he squatted, and Tahn saw the emblem of the League clearly over the man’s left breast, and likewise fashioned in the pin that closed the man’s cloak at the hollow of his neck. The stranger put a hand to Tahn’s brow. A worried expression touched his eyes. “I’ve no interest in alarming you, my friend. But I’ve pulled up children from the river who feel more alive than you.” He smiled, seeming to think better of verbal diagnosis. “Grunt if you understand.”