Mercadian Masques

Chapter 2

In her trips aboard Weatherlight, Orim had experienced many un-pleasantries but nothing quite this bad. The ship creaked and groaned as it raced along the river. The bed was narrow, and Weatherlight lurched from side to side, occasionally blundering into the banks. Each impact jolted the ship and almost hurled the healer from her precarious perch at the rail.

Short and scrappy, Orim clung on. Her turban had padded her head against the worst knocks. The pockets in her healer's cloak helped absorb some of the body blows-and promised her salves and poultices aplenty when this all was done. She only wished her knee-high calfskin boots would have better footing on the rolling deck. Orim desperately wanted to get below and check on her patients.

She could see nothing behind her but the foaming water of the river, which receded as the ship passed. She turned to look ahead and was rewarded with nothing more than an onrush of blackness. Over the top of the pilothouse she could see dim forms moving about the ship's deck- attackers. The ones who abducted her patients, her ship, herself.

Orim struggled toward them along the rail. One figure- more surefooted than she-ascended the stairs and clung to the siding before her. He was tall and slender. Dark hair flew before his face. Hundreds of coins were braided into the long strands. The man's eyebrows drew tightly together. His eyes glinted like onyx in the night. He wore white robes that draped his shoulders and his waist but left his muscular chest bare.

The man spoke in a language she had never before heard.

She shook her head. "What do you want? Where are you taking me?"

He grabbed her elbow and hauled her to the hatch leading below decks. At the bottom of the ladder she could see him more clearly. His hands were glowing strangely-a silvery light that flooded the familiar passage. He urged her on toward the infirmary.

She entered and found two other strangers already occupying the cramped space, standing guard over Klaars and Drianan. Klaars was suffering acutely the effects of having been pitched from side to side in his bunk. In the crash, the thin young sailor had suffered a concussion. A large black knot hovered beneath his shock of auburn hair. In addition, his arm had been broken just below the elbow, and it was bound with a splint. In all the sloshing mayhem, the sling had fallen off, and the splint had been battered to pieces.

Drianan was in worse shape. His spinal injury had been severe, and despite Orim's neck splint, the man lolled back and forth on his bunk as if already dead.

Orim tried to remember some god to pray to.

From outside, over the noise of the ship, she could hear shouts from the others above decks. From time to time men climbed into the small room to consult with the coin-haired man, evidently the leader of the raiders. He answered them perfunctorily, all the time keeping his unwavering eyes on Orim as she moved between the two patients, trying to minister to them. He did his best to help, holding on to Drianan while Orim tended Klaars, and vice versa. Even that aid soon was unneeded. Drianan was dead before midnight.

It was a long and horrible night, traveling that way. Just when Orim was certain the ordeal would never end, the lurching motion abruptly stopped. There were further shouted exchanges from above. Weatherlight shivered. Klaars slipped from his bunk with a crash against the bulkhead. Mercifully, he struck his head and fell unconscious.

The ship shivered again and heeled upward. The list was gone. Weatherlight floated, buoyed on water.

There was a faint cheer from above, and then a clamor of feet across the deck. A hatch was thrown back with a crash. Silvery-green light spilled downward. The chief of the raiders strode to the hatch and called up into it.

Orim backed up, trying to shield Klaars with her body.

Two more raiders came into the sickbay and stood with their chief. One was a thin young man with straight, brown, shoulder-length hair. Coins were braided among the strands, though not nearly as many as in the chief's hair. Medallions and pouches hung about his neck. The other was a stocky warrior with black shoulder armor. They stood beside the chieftain and stared at Orim.

"You have the ship. Leave us alone," she said nervously.

They pushed past her. She tried to stop the plated warrior, but he brushed her aside impatiently, as though she were a child. He drew a long, thin knife. Orim stifled a scream. The warrior slashed away some bedding that had tangled Drianan's body. Then, with surprising gentleness, he lifted the dead sailor. His companion hoisted Klaars. Orim sprang forward to support Klaars's arm, and the procession moved cautiously above deck.

Orim looked around in amazement. The open plain was gone. Around the ship rose huge trees, each trunk as wide around as a small village. They rose to a lofty canopy, far above which the yellow-orange sky of morning could be glimpsed. Weatherlight itself was floating on the edge of a vast lagoon whose dimensions were impossible to determine, and whose waters stretched off into distant oblivion. Everything was dark and cool. Festooned vines and moss draped from the lower branches of the trees, trailing across the deck of the ship.

All around her, Orim sensed a vast, living presence-a being beside whom she and all the humans with her were insignificant. After the long, horrific night, this magnificent presence was a balm. She stretched cramped limbs. Likewise, her spirit seemed to stretch outward, reaching up and up until it emerged from the topmost leaves to find itself pressed against the warm body of the sky. She wanted to cry out at the pain and beauty around her. With an almost audible sigh, her spirit slowly sank back into the soft bed of the trees, drifting lower and lower until the warm waters of the earth received and caressed it. She shivered with a sudden chill and blinked her eyes. The vision faded, and she found herself once again standing on the deck of the ship. The enormous trees all around were limned in silver fire.

"A prisoner in paradise," she muttered.

She was not the only one. Klaars had been moved to the other side of the deck, where he lay unconscious on a woven pallet of reeds. The medallion-wearing young man tended him, working over his arm. A vine rope was meanwhile wrapped around Drianan's body. Three men lifted him and gently lowered the corpse over the side of the craft. Below waited a canoe filled with fern boughs. Women in adjacent canoes received the body and arrayed his arms and legs, laying flowering ivy atop his chest and wreathing his head in blossoms. They cared for him as though he were one of their own fallen.

Other figures swarmed over the rails to stand dripping on Weatherlight's polished planks. With their chieftain, they approached Orim.

She took a deep breath and murmured, "Now what?"

The leader gazed levelly at her. His eyes glinted with the same light as the coins braided into his hair. He was handsome, yes, but proud and commanding. He gestured Orim toward the side rail. There, she saw a slender canoe, evidently there to take her to shore.

A line was swiftly passed over the side, and she clambered down. Even as she descended, other raiders who had swum from shore to meet the ship were scrambling up the sides of Weatherlight. She seated herself in the middle of the canoe. Warriors climbed down fore and aft. The chieftain of the raiders meanwhile dove from the rail and struck out for shore. The warriors paddled out behind him.

As they pulled away from the swimmers and canoes, they entered very still waters. Despite the dim light, Orim could easily see the slender ripples that bled away from either side of the canoe. Around her hung a vast silence, broken only by the soft calls of the raiders and the rhythmic swish of the paddles. Here and there on the lagoon crouched huts, linked by bamboo causeways.

There was a sudden fluttering from above. A dark winged form passed close overhead. Orim ducked and gasped. The tribesmen chuckled. They halted their paddling for a moment, and one held up his hand, making an odd chirruping noise with his tongue. There was another flapping of wings, and something settled on his arm. It hung there upside down, apparently a very large bat, but its eyes were enormous and gleaming. Its ears perked sharply in her direction, and it cocked its head to one side, as if deciding what this new creature was doing in its domain.

The paddler reached into a hidden pocket of his cape and plucked forth some morsel, which he offered to the bat. The creature, without taking its eyes from Orim, snapped it up in a mouth gleaming with sharp, white teeth. The man who held it crooned to it in a soft voice. It chittered briefly, then flitted off into the darkness.

A few more strokes of the paddle, and the canoe ran aground. The warrior at the prow climbed out and motioned for Orim to do the same. She alighted on a level bank formed not of soil but of mossy wood. The vast trees were so thickly clustered in this portion of the forest that their root bulbs merged. Trunks rose all around like pillars in a temple- except that each trunk was itself as wide as a whole temple. Bark gleamed silvery beneath robes of lichen.

The warriors took Orim's arms and escorted her in among the trees. The hush deepened, though here and there she glimpsed more tribesfolk. Soon, the forest was full of them. They waited furtively among the crowded boles. With their white robes and their coin-coifed hair, they were dwarfed by the gigantic boles. Folk peered at her out of mossy hollows. The men stared suspiciously, the women quizzically, and the children with curious grins.

Countless feet had worn footpaths along the root bulbs. Though the green ceiling overhead was lofty, it cast all below in a purple murk. Even at midday, the yellow sky would give little light this deep. In most places, only the silver glow of the ever-present trees lit the darkness.

Ahead was an exception-a bright clearing. One of the millennial trees had fallen, perhaps centuries ago, and torn a vast hole in the oppressive canopy. The downed tree now was no more than a huge, mossy hill that ran through the forest. Young trees grew in straight lines from the decaying bulk. The villagers had burrowed into the side of it, excavating cave homes for themselves. Windows and doors were dug into that log. They leaked silvery-green light out into the clearing. Other villagers dwelt in eroded root bulbs or lived in hovels so encased in lichen as to seem only knobs on the forest floor.

"We are like mere insects in this place," Orim thought aloud.

At the center of the clearing was a welcome sight. A great bonfire flamed. Its warm, red light was almost blinding after the forest's ghostly illumination. Klaars sat on a pallet near the fire, his auburn hair seeming a manifestation of its flame. He had reawakened, and he cradled his broken arm as though it pained him greatly. A metal-plated guard stood on either side of him.

Orim pulled free of her own guards and hurried over to him.

Klaars's arm bore a crude splint, probably devised by the man with the medallions. His skin had been pasted with a thick orange goo. It clearly agonized him. His eyes rolled in his head.

Orim patted his healthy shoulder and spoke soothingly. "Stay calm. I don't think these people mean to hurt us. They could have done so quite a while ago if that's what they intended."

The young crewman continued to breathe unevenly. The vein in his neck pulsed in a violent rhythm.

The leader of the raiders arrived, stepping into the firelight. His coin-braided black hair dripped lagoon water. He said something to Orim and pointed to himself.

"What? What is it? I don't understand." The healer spread her hands in a gesture of frustration.

Patiently he repeated the phrase, again pointing first to people around him, then to himself. "Yo shava Cho-Arrim. Ja shav Cho-Manno."

Orim shook her head in frustration. Beside her, Klaars gave a moan of fear and pain.

The chief reached down to Orim. His hand gently lifted Orim's chin. She found herself staring into deep brown eyes that contained a flash of humor. Satisfied he had her attention, the man pointed to himself. "Cho-Manno."

Orim nodded slowly, repeating, "Cho-Manno."

He smiled and gestured to the crowd. "Cho-Arrim."

"Cho-Arrim." Deep within her, Orim felt a long-dormant excitement begin to build.

He pointed to her and cocked his head.

"Orim," she said.

"O-leem."

"No, Orim."

"O-reem."

"Yes. That's it. Orim."

He flashed white teeth at her and glanced swiftly around the gathering. His hair shimmered with hundreds of coins. Striding toward the gawking villagers, he drew forth a pretty teenaged girl. "Is-Shada."

"Is-Shada."

Is-Shada smiled nervously. She was beautiful, with long dark hair, a smooth olive complexion, and dressed in a kneelength white shift. She approached Orim, took her hand, and stroked it gently. Then she lifted it to touch her forehead.

"O-reem. Is-Shada. Do chrano 'stva o'meer." Her hand glowed faintly.

To her surprise, Orim saw that some of the silver light from Is-Shada's hand passed momentarily to her own fingers. She smiled and gently released her hand.

The girl knelt next to Klaars.

"Can you do something for him?" Orim looked from Cho-Manno to Is-Shada.

The former looked grave and pointed across the fire.

From the other side of the clearing came the thin, brownhaired young man she had seen on Weatherlight. Orim suddenly realized the pouches about his neck were medicine bags, not unlike her own, and the medallions symbols of healing.

The young man knelt beside Klaars and gingerly probed his wounded arm. Releasing a shriek of pain that echoed through the forest, Klaars fell back on the pallet and writhed in agony. The young healer shook his head in concern, raised the largest amulet at his neck, and touched it to Klaars's forehead. He spoke a brief word.

Klaars immediately sank limp, a faint snore emerging from his lips.

Orim stared in astonishment at the young healer. "Thank you," she said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

The young Cho-Arrim stepped back a pace and said something to the leader.

Orim watched their grave faces as they spoke. "The things I could learn from these people," she whispered in amazement.

Cho-Manno nodded in decision.

In a single fluid motion, the young healer turned, drew from beneath his robes a weighty cleaver, and slashed it down and across Klaars's arm.

The crewman awoke, giving another wild scream of pain. The arm fell away from his side.

"No!" Orim shouted, reaching out. Her warrior escorts dragged her back.

Three more warriors held down Klaars as the healer knelt with a cloth and bound the spurting stump. He placed a stick in the rag and twisted it until the tourniquet shut off the blood flow.

Orim fought the warriors who hauled her away. She stared in horror at Klaars's maimed body. "No! You monster! You're all monsters!"

Is-Shada was suddenly there, wrapping Orim in a tight embrace. Even as the warriors pinned Orim's arms, the young woman held her tightly, patting her back and whispering soothingly in her ear.

"O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada 'stva o'meer…"

Night came to the village of the Cho-Arrim-though night was little different than day. The yellow-orange sky had gone dark, yes, but even during the day, little of its illumination reached the forest floor. Day or night, most of the light came from the silvery gleam of the ubiquitous trees.

That gleam was the only source of light in Orim and Klaars's cell. The room lay deep in the root cluster of an ancient tree. Though the chamber had neither door nor lock, it was clearly a prison. Stout roots formed a cage all around them, receding fifty feet in each direction. There was only one pathway down into that thicket of roots, and Orim and Klaars had been forced to descend it despite the man's amputation. At the top and the bottom of the path, a guard had been posted. No door, no lock-and no way out.

"Monsters," Klaars said, gripping the tourniquet on his arm. He paced across the foot-smoothed cluster of roots, his teeth grinding angrily. "Savage monsters!"

Orim shook her head. She had been trying for hours to calm the man, to comfort him, but he would not sit down beside her or listen to her. "I think they just didn't understand. They didn't realize the limb could be saved. Perhaps gangrene is worse here-"

"I'm going to get up there and kill one of them. I'm going to find that healer and chop his arm off!"

"No, Klaars," Orim said. "That wouldn't do any good."

"It sure would feel good!" Klaars hissed. He made a vicious chopping motion with his remaining hand. "How do you like that, you Cho-Arrim bastard!"

A new voice spoke out of the murk. "O-reem?" Soundlessly, Is-Shada had descended past the two guards to visit her new friend. "O-reem? O'meer Is-Shada." She stepped furtively into the chamber.

Orim hadn't the chance to warn the young woman. Klaars leaped like a wolf upon her. He knocked her down and wrapped his good arm about her neck. He flexed his elbow, but not before she released a strangled shriek.

Through the doorway came a guard-a huge and metal-plated manifestation of the night. A sword flashed out from his belt.

"Fight him, Orim," Klaars shouted, swinging Is-Shada out as a shield before him. "Fight the guard! Get his sword!"

Orim stood there, imploring, "What are you doing, Klaars?"

"Getting us out of here! Take his sword!"

"Let her go!"

The guard sized up Orim, who stood with hands trembling before her. He decided she was not a threat and lunged at Klaars. The sword darted in.

Klaars pivoted, flinging Is-Shada into the guard's way. Steel bit into her side. Blood welled forth.

The soldier withdrew, staring in disbelief at the blood he had drawn.

Growling, Klaars only tightened his hold. Is-Shada's face went from crimson to purple. In moments, she ceased struggling and hung limp in his grasp. Snarling like a cornered beast, Klaars shouted, "Drop the sword, or I'll kill her! I'll do it! I'll kill Eeeshadda!"

Somehow, the guard understood. He dropped the sword on the floor and lifted his hands. He nodded in supplication.

Klaars dragged the limp young woman across the floor and picked up the sword. Once its hilt was in his hand, he brusquely dropped Is-Shada.

The guard stooped to grab her, but suddenly, red gore sprayed all across the motionless young woman.

"No, Klaars!" Orim shouted.

The guard stood. His severed arm flopped grotesquely atop Is-Shada. He staggered, blood jetting from his stump.

"Take that, Cho-Arrim bastard!"

Orim shucked her healer's cloak and wrapped it around the spurting limb, applying pressure. "Damn it, Klaars! Put down the sword!"

"Get away from him!" Klaars shouted.

"He'll die!"

"Get away from him, or you'll die!"

It was too late anyway. The bulky warrior went to his knees and collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.

Klaars stared avidly at the two bodies. "Let's go, Orim."

She knelt, struggling to stanch the blood flow. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Suit yourself," Klaars spat. He strode out the door and began climbing toward the forest floor.

Meanwhile, Orim checked the guard. Pools of red life lay on the floor of the chamber. He was dead-irretrievably dead. But Is-Shada…

Orim reached the young woman. Her neck was not broken. Orim rolled her onto her back. Neither was she breathing or her heart beating. Orim pounded thrice on the young woman's sternum, tilted her head back, inhaled deeply, and filled IsShada's lungs with the breath of life.

"Live, damn it. Live."

As she compressed Is-Shada's chest again, Orim whispered, "Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer…"

The killing had ended by morning. Klaars had slain two warriors, a young man, and an old woman before he had finally been wrestled to the ground. Now he knelt there at sword point. Beside him knelt Orim. She had been discovered in the cell, bloodstained beside the body of the first guard. IsShada lay unconscious but alive nearby. Without the ability to explain her appearance, she seemed as guilty as Klaars.

Morning had come-the time for executions.

Ta-Spon was the executioner, a hulking man as tall as Gerrard and as muscular as Tahngarth. A mane of long black hair spilled back from his head to his shoulder blades, and a crimson mask covered his features. He bore a wickedly sharp and heavy blade, which just now he held at Klaars's throat.

"They were always planning to kill us, you know," Klaars whispered to Orim. His eyes hatefully raked across the whiterobed crowd that surrounded them. Cho-Manno stood in their midst, returning the man's vicious glare. To his right, in the space where Is-Shada would have stood, there was only an unsheathed sword. Klaars spit toward the chieftain. "At least I killed some of them before they killed me."

"At least I saved one of them," Orim answered stoically.

"Yes, but the one you saved can't save you," Klaars noted.

As if understanding the conversation, Ta-Spon glanced at Cho-Manno.

The chieftain nodded.

Steel flashed. It hummed in air. It sliced through skin, muscle, and bone as though through water. Klaars's head bounded free.

Orim saw no more. She buried her face in her hands and wept. The sound of her sobbing spread out through the hushed throng. The slump and spatter of her comrade only fueled her cries.

Ominously, Ta-Spon stepped up beside her. His blade cast a crimson light across Orim.

She did not lift her head. If he would kill her, he could do it easily enough as she lay there.

Ta-Spon seemed to wait for the signal. His feet shifted.

The sword rose into the air. Utter silence gripped the forest.

Then came the hum of the blade… and another sound- someone rushing up the path. A great weight fell on Orim's neck-not the weight of steel, but of arms. Someone crouched over her, weeping.

"O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer… O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer…"