Mercadian Masques

Chapter 5

The dark water spread out in a V behind Orim as she swam. Ripples ran away from her across the lagoon's surface. A few shafts of sunlight reflected off the water, glinting in the evening air.

It was, as nearly as Orim could determine, about a month since her capture by the Cho-Arrim. On the forest floor it was difficult to be certain of the passage of day and night. The light was always the same soft, gray glow of the tree trunks. Within the village a fire burned at all times, and the ChoArrim moved about it immersed in their everyday routines. Orim slept when she was tired and awoke feeling rested and refreshed, but she had no idea whether she had been asleep two hours or ten. Perhaps the best measure of how much time had passed was how well she had picked up the Cho-Arrim language. Total immersion had taught her many words very quickly.

Total immersion… she dove deep and swam through dark spaces.

Orim now had full run of the settlement without accompanying guards. They would have been a useless expenditure of manpower, since Orim had no idea in which direction lay the forest's edge. If she went the wrong way and became lost, the Cho-Arrim told her, she would wander endlessly down the aisles of tall trees and never again feel the wind on her face. Certainly the forest looked the same to her wherever she walked: hoary, shaggy, vast, and vaguely threatening. Her sole clear landmarks were the village and the lagoon that bordered it-the lagoon whose waters seemed to swell and recede according to some strange rhythm. Odd sounds came from the water occasionally, noises too deep and remote to come from human or animal throats.

She surfaced. A few hundred feet from where Orim swam, Weatherlight floated peacefully. Figures moved casually on the upper deck. One waved to Orim, and she waved back. To these folk, Weatherlight was not a ship. It was an oracle. Even down here among the trees, they had glimpsed Weatherlight's cometary arrival across the sky and had believed the airship to be their god Ramos. An old myth told of Ramos falling from the heavens and breaking into pieces-soul, mind, and body. All the evils of Mercadia arose from his broken being. A prophecy told that Ramos would return, and if soul, mind, and body were reunited, he would unite the world and drive the evil away. To these folk, Weatherlight was not a warship but something altogether more valuable. It was a holy relic-the soul of a god.

There was no arguing with gods or their believers. Orim no longer tried to disabuse these folk of their strange notions about the ship. She only waved and smiled at the soldiers, turned, and swam for shore.

In the roots of the tree where she'd left her clothes, the healer found Is-Shada, her arms clasped about shapely knees, dark hair pulled back in a braid.

She giggled as Orim shivered. "I told you it was too cold."

"Cold water can be good for you," Orim said serenely. "At the university, we used to pour cold water over ourselves every morning and evening. In the winter we had to break the ice on the surface."

Is-Shada's giggles grew louder. "You were young and foolish. I'm young and sensible. You won't catch me swimming for at least another month. What was the 'university'?"

Orim had become accustomed to Is-Shada's rapid-fire questions. At first, when she only vaguely understood their meaning, she had labored over her answers, provoking still more questions and frustration on both sides. Now the healer had learned to pick and choose the questions to which she supplied detailed replies. Is-Shada never stopped asking, though.

"The university was a place at which I studied my art. My friend Hanna studied there as well."

"Hanna!" Is-Shada exclaimed. "What is she like? Is she pretty like you? Did she study the healing arts as you did? Where was the university?"

"Hanna is very pretty," Orim replied. She had not thought of Weatherlight's navigator in some time. Is-Shada's question conjured up a mental picture of Hanna, her face grimy with grease, bent eagerly over a dissected component of the ship's engine-but pretty. Always pretty. "She was not a healer, though. At the university she studied artifacts."

"What is an artifact?"

Orim laughed. "It's-an artifact. A magical object." She pointed toward the ship. "Weatherlight is an artifact."

Is-Shada's eyes, always expressive, grew round and wide.

"An artifact? Really? It's more than that! Much more."

"Yes," Orim replied, her eyes faraway. "Yes, on that we agree."

Is-Shada looked troubled. "I think we should not speak of this." She lay back and watched as Orim bound her turban about her head. "Why do you wear your hair like that? It conceals your beauty."

"It marks my status as a healer," Orim replied.

Is-Shada looked serious. "Yes. You healed me that horrible night. Do you have chavala?"

"What is chavala?"

Is-Shada hesitated, struggling for the right words. "It is a gift from above," she replied slowly. "It is not given often, but those who possess it stand high in the favor of the tribe and of the gods. Ta-Karnst is so marked."

Orim put out a hand and pulled the younger woman to her feet. "Come on. Let's get back to the village before they think I've run off."

As they made their way through the trees, both women greeted the tribesmen they passed. Some sat industriously by the side of the lagoon, pulling gently on fishing nets. Much of the Cho-Arrim diet consisted of fish, supplemented by fruits, berries, and vegetables collected from various parts of the forest. Orim had not tasted red meat since she had been among the tribe, and she found the change a welcome one.

As a rule, Cho-Arrim preferred the cool, pale light that came from lanterns that each home possessed, or the gentle silver light of the forest itself. Tonight, though, the bonfire burning in the middle of the village was heaped high with fuel, driving away the cold and shadows. Around the fire, a large group had gathered.

Orim and Is-Shada approached curiously, and the younger woman gave a delighted clap of her hands.

"It's the separi! The storytellers. They are about to start!"

There were seven separi, three women and four men. They looked no different from the other Cho-Arrim Orim had met, but the village tribesfolk surrounded them, chattering cheerfully. One by one, villagers found seats around the fire. The very old and young were wrapped in shawls and blankets. Orim and Is-Shada settled in among them.

The separi began to perform. Around the fire they went, each carrying two masks, which they alternated as they assumed different characters. For the most part, the stories were simple fables, easy to follow, mostly comic. Orim laughed with the rest of the village, and when she had any trouble understanding, Is-Shada, curled up catlike at her side, explained.

In time, there came a short pause. The players gathered in front of the fire, upon which several villagers stacked more wood so that it blazed with a sudden ferocity. Then the separi began another play.

This was evidently not comic, and Orim had more difficulty following the action. It concerned some great conflict, for two men stood opposite one another, moving their hands in complex rhythms as their minions battled. Sometimes the fighters pretended to wield swords or spears; other times they moved swiftly, as if imitating machines that hacked and clawed at one another. The two sides separated, and Orim saw that the man on one side had been joined by a woman, from whose mask flowed a tangle of vines dyed bright red to simulate hair. On the opposing side were two figures, both male. In the middle, two separi surrounded a female, her mask trailing green vines. She swirled the tendrils around her, a whirling cloud of green and yellow. As the motions of the opposing men became more intense, supported by the players at their sides, the woman in the middle gradually sank to her knees. Her motions became slower, then ceased altogether.

Something about the performance touched the very edge of Orim's memory. Dimly she recalled similar events: a mighty conflict between rival magicians, a conflict that ended in tragedy and death. She had heard the story back at the Argivian University, sitting in the library on a gloomy winter day, glancing through an obscure, age-old poem…

Recognition came in a sudden shock. "It's the Brothers' War!"

"What?" Is-Shada had been lying on her stomach, intent on the play.

"The Brothers' War!" Orim slapped her hand against IsShada's foot in excitement. "I learned this legend at the university. Two brothers, Urza and Mishra, fought a war against one another on the continent of Terisiare. During the latter part of the war, they invaded the island of Argoth and fought until it was devastated. We were taught that the spirit of nature in Argoth died when the brothers had completed their battle. Then there was a huge explosion that killed both brothers and ended the war."

Is-Shada was plainly uninterested in her friend's story. "That's not what this is about," she said, turning back to the figures by the fire. "Watch."

The battle was reaching a climax. The gestures had become more violent. The red-haired woman slowly crossed the space between the two principal figures, her arms outstretched. Her former ally, whose mask was painted in dark, handsome features, lifted his hands and clapped. The red-haired woman dropped to the ground. The dark man lifted his arms in a gesture of triumph. He hefted three great stones waiting beside the fire, set them on his back, and began a whirling dance around the flames. At the height of one turn, he seemed struck by something, and the three stones flew outward, dropping among the fallen folk. Then, the man himself collapsed.

All the separi lay still on the ground now, save one, wearing a golden mask, who stepped over their bodies. She reached down and touched each of the fallen, and at her touch each one rose. Finally, when all were standing, they wove back and forth in an intricate dance until at last they joined in a single entity.

This episode brought the play to an end. The separi discarded their masks and stood grinning amid the plaudits of the watching Cho-Arrim.

Orim clapped with the rest of the crowd and then turned to Is-Shada. "All right. What is it about?"

Is-Shada shrugged. "It is the Peliam, the origin story," she said. "It tells us where everything came from and to where we'll return when we die."

"All right," said Orim after a pause. "Tell me."

Is-Shada spoke as if talking to a child. "The fight was between two gods, Ramos and Orhop. Each had pulled down a piece of the heavens, and each sought to use it to best the other. In the end, Ramos triumphed, and Orhop, the evil god, was vanquished. Ramos grieved for the ruin he had brought to his world. And so, he gathered the people of forest and plain and mountain and set them on his back and carried them to a new world, a better world. But when he arrived, he was struck from the sky and fell in three great pieces-soul, mind, and body. Borne atop his soul, the tribes of the Cho-Arrim landed in the forests. Those atop his mind-the Saprazzans-fell into the oceans. And those atop his body-some fell from the fiery corpse and struck the coastal lands, and they became the Rishadans. Those who held on to the blazing body were slain and lie now guarding the bones of Ramos. That is why when we die, we return to the heavens, the place from which we came. Once there, we are joined in the Great River that runs among the stars until at last it falls off the edge of the world into the great, everlasting dark."

Orim nodded thoughtfully. "And who in the play was the red-haired woman?"

"A demon who pretended to support Ramos in the conflict. In the end, she betrayed him, but he defeated her and so won the war. Her name was Hassno the Unrighteous."

"And the last part of the play?"

"Though the children of Ramos-Cho-Arrim, Rishadan, Saprazzan-were scattered through forest, plain, and sea, someday will come the Uniter. He will be a great metal serpent. When he returns, all the children of Ramos will be joined as one and will triumph over our enemies," Is-Shada said with conviction.

"And you believe Weatherlight is the soul of this Uniter?"

Is-Shada pushed back the dark hair that framed her heartshaped face. "You would have to ask Cho-Manno."

"You know, there were other folk who thought the owner of Weatherlight was a uniter-the Korvecdal."

The woman only shrugged. "Truth is truth, wherever it is found."

Orim startled awake from a nightmare. Her heart pounded in her chest.

She had dreamed of monsters-inhuman beasts with four arms, boar-heads, scorpion tails. They scaled the vast forest wall, where tree trunks formed a barrier a hundred feet high. The monsters leaped upward, as nimble and bloodthirsty as fleas. They loped into the nighttime wood. Whenever they encountered a creature-whether coney-fox or wumpus or red wolf-the monsters fell upon it, tore it to pieces, ate their victim's innards, and flung away bone and muscle to rot. Their claws girdled ancient trees. Their talons tore up undergrowth. Worst of all, they arrowed straight through the forest toward the Cho-Arrim village.

"Just a nightmare," Orim said to herself, panting and clutching a hand to her chest. Her bed of leaves and moss lay, warm and familiar, beneath her. Solid walls of wood enclosed her. Is-Shada's room was just down the corridor, and ChoManno's beyond. She was safe. "Just a nightmare."

Feet came along the passage-probably Is-Shada, checking on her.

"You are awake," came a man's voice, basso in the darkness.

"Cho-Manno!" Orim gasped, grabbing a robe from a hook on the wall and holding it over herself. "What are you doing-?"

"You dreamed it too," he interrupted. His eyes glinted in the dark. "That's good. The Rushwood is getting its roots in you."

"You had the same nightmare?"

"Yes. Mercenaries. Monsters. They must be caterans," ChoManno answered. "But it was not our dream. It was Rushwood's. And it was not just a dream. The monsters are coming."

Orim stood. "Where can we flee? They can run, and climb-"

"We do not flee. We fight. The forest awoke us to mount a defense. Even now, it awakes other defenders-ancient things that have not walked the land in centuries-but they rouse slowly. We must go. We are the first line of defense."

"We?" Orim asked, astonished. "I'm not a fighter."

"You are a healer, like Ta-Karnst. The forest dreams in you, as in him-chavala. Where there are fighters, there must be healers."

Dropping her robe, Orim donned her healer's cloak, slipped on her leggings and boots, and wrapped the turban about sleeptousled hair. "I'm ready."

"Good," Cho-Manno said, holding his hand out in the darksome room. She saw then that he himself wore only a loincloth. "My armor and sword wait by the door. Already, the skyscouts and wizards are on their way." Orim took his hand. It was strong and warm. A salty scent enveloped him. "Let us fight for the Rushwood."

A coney-fox darted, shrieking. Ears lay back along its shoulders. Gray haunches pumped furiously. Claws flung up the mossy ground. Hunks of lichen smacked the fangs of its pursuer.

The monstrous thing came on, heedless. Eyes glowed yellow deviltry in the night. Mandibles thrashed hungrily. Four arms raked out after its prey. Taloned feet tore the ground. A barb-tipped appendage stabbed down, pinning the coney-fox's bushy tail.

With another shriek, the terrified creature yanked free, leaving half its tail behind. It bled. Each bound flung a sanguine trail behind it. The monster would never give up now. It would follow the blood path across the forest floor. It was doomed. To ground-every coney-fox knew to go to ground to die. It vaulted over a root tangle and scrambled down into the vast hole that opened on the other side.

Darkness lay ahead. The silver glow of the tree trunks receded. The coney-fox bounded down a worn trail among roots. There was a strong smell ahead.

Another creature laired down here, a creature with massive claws, a scaly gray hide, huge muscles-a crouched and lumbering thing. Its mouth was filled with blunt, plant-eating teeth. This beast was a protector. The coney-fox leaped beneath it, flushing it from cover. The lumbering satyr jumped up the side of the hollow just as the fanged monster plunged down it.

The satyr lunged atop the cateran enforcer. Quicker and crueler, the cateran bit open the beast's belly and started feasting.

In its dying gasps, the satyr clasped the cateran's legs and yanked them apart as though it were breaking a wishbone. A messy moment followed, and then one dead beast collapsed atop the other.

The coney-fox cowered silently below. More fanged horrors vaulted over the pit and raced on into the deep forest.

By the time Orim, Cho-Manno, Ta-Karnst, and Ta-Spon arrived at the battleground, the forest was bathed in blood.

Red shafts jutted from the bellies and brainpans of fallen monsters-boar-headed men, demon-eyed beasts, four-armed killers, things with scorpion tails, snake bodies, roach legs… They lay thick across the ground behind the battle lines. Scores more had broken through, crashing against hastily entrenched Cho-Arrim warriors.

Black armor bashed black carapace. Darting swords of bone parried darting stingers of poison. The Cho-Arrim were outnumbered four to one, but they bravely fought on. Unarmored archers even waded into the midst, their arrows leaping a mere arm's length to pierce fiendish eyes. The Cho-Arrim made a valiant stand, but more inhuman monsters rushed from the dark woods.

A four-armed monster ripped the armor from one warrior's chest and plunged its claws through skin and muscle and rib to pierce the flailing heart within. A boar-headed beast drove its tusks up beneath a woman's jaw, impaling her and whipping her back and forth until her chin ripped off. A scorpion-man sunk its stingers in an archer's eyes and smiled lustfully as it pumped its red venom into his brain.

"I've got to get down there!" Orim gasped, clawing forward over a mossy root bulb.

Cho-Manno's hand pulled her back. "No. Wait here with TaKarnst. If my healers die, my warriors are doomed. First, let us drive them back. Then you emerge to tend the wounded." Drawing his bone sword, Cho-Manno strode down the embankment. Beside him went Ta-Spon, the gigantic executioner who had slain Klaars. Ta-Spon bore a massive spiked mace on his shoulder. Soon, those spikes would be running in blood.

"Drive them back?" Orim worried aloud as she watched the men's broad, armored shoulders. "How can they possibly drive them back?"

Young and lithe beside her, Ta-Karnst pointed to a rise of wood that overlooked the battlefield. "Watch. The wizards have arrived."

"What good is water magic in a dry place?"

"No place is truly dry," Ta-Karnst said. "Look!"

A spell leaped in white ribbons down from the hillside. It surged toward the center of the battle, where a four-armed beast tore apart warrior after warrior. The monster stood in a small swale between roots. Blood mantled the creature and filled the spot to cover its talons. Tendrils of force plunged into the blood pool, coiling through it, enlivening it. A sanguine vortex rose. As it gathered more liquid, the vortex formed into a man-a man of blood. With no sword, no armor, the man rammed his gory fist down the cateran's throat. His arm followed to the elbow, to the shoulder.

"What is it doing?" Orim asked.

"Drowning the beast in blood," Ta-Karnst said.

Gagging, clutching its throat, the cateran fell to its knees. Red bubbles gushed from its mouth, and it sank down in the pool of blood surrounding it. Gore disgorged from the monster's nostrils and mouth. The pool churned again, another vortex rising. The blood warrior drew more power from the pool and strode out to attack a second beast.

"We are, after all, creatures filled with water," TaKarnst said. "But we are not the only ones-see?"

Another spell lashed down from the wizards on the hill. Fingers of mist reached out and wrapped around a boar-headed invader. Droplets of water condensed out of air and soaked into the beast's hide. Moments later, steam issued from its every pore. The monster shuddered, flesh seemed to boil. It opened its mouth to bellow, but only steam jetted angrily forth. With it came the unmistakable scent of roast boar. It, too, collapsed.

As more magic roared down from the hilltop, Cho-Manno and his warriors made brutal work of the beasts. The chieftain strode angrily against the foes, driving his sword into bellies and hearts and eyes. Ta-Spon's mace had become an aspergillum that laved the battlefield in blood. Beside him fought the blood warrior, empowered by the red rain in the air.

No new monsters joined the fray, and those already fighting fell back before the Cho-Arrim defenders.

"And now, they are trapped," Ta-Karnst said, gesturing behind the line of beasts.

From the treetops, on cords as long and sleek as spider webs, dropped the skyscouts. Others glided down on capes that draped from ankles to wrists. They reached the ground and drew their swords. In moments, as many Cho-Arrim stood behind the beasts as before them. The battlefield had become a vice.

"Let's go," Orim said. She vaulted over the root cluster and ran down the slope. Ta-Karnst followed behind.

They reached the first of the fallen warriors, many of them dead. For those who lived, there were bandages and salves, opiates to deaden local pain and soporifics to bring sleep. The work was brutal and busy. The number of wounded was overwhelming. Lacerations, amputations, eviscerations, poisonings…

Orim worked over her ninth patient when Cho-Manno strode to her side.

"The battle is won," he said heavily.

"I'm still fighting mine," Orim replied, cinching a tourniquet on a ruined arm. Panting, she asked, "Do we even know who the attackers were? Where they came from?" Cho-Manno stooped, helping to tie the tourniquet in place. "They were cateran mercenaries, as I thought. They were hired by the Mercadians."

Shaking her head bitterly, Orim hissed, "Mercadians… they are not among the children of Ramos, are they?" "No. Their origin is different than ours. But the forest knows them, now. They will not win so far inward again. As soon as Mercadians harm the forest again, greater powers will arise. The forest itself will destroy them."

"Vicious monsters. Why are the Mercadians attacking us?" Cho-Manno's eyes were dark in his handsome face. "They came to capture Weatherlight."