The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

FIFTEEN

She slid down the side of the statue in shadow, and stared around her at the unsheltering, moonlit square. There was a long, unprotected distance before she could slip into darkness beside Burgdeeth’s buildings. It would be so easy to slide open the door to the tunnel now and hide herself there. She felt as if eyes watched from everywhere. She pulled off her shoes and raced headlong to the first deep shadows, by the Weaver’s. She crouched by the broken loom, her heart pounding.

She began to move carefully along the wall among the tangled, broken debris from Burgdeeth’s homes. At the edge of the moonlight, a carved doll lay forlorn atop a broken washtub. Food was scattered, good mawzee spilled and honeyrot sticky where casks had been smashed open. In front of the Forgemaster’s, smith’s tools lay covered with blood so she stood, shocked, for a long moment. She felt sick for Shanner, sick with his death, and sick that the tools he had loved were here like this. There was a child’s tunic hung from the corner of a building and some hides had been thrown into the street.

The Kubalese soldiers must have been very drunk, indeed, to destroy so wantonly. Even they would need tools, need food and equipment.

A tangle of brooms and cookpots and broken benches lay across the Inn’s porch, in full moonlight. From the shadows she stood looking, then quailed as she heard movement inside. In one of the upper rooms? A girl laughed, and a door banged. Maybe the girls didn’t all find the Kubalese so distasteful. She started forward then drew back in terror as the door opened noisily and a Kubalese soldier stepped out.

He stood on the porch looking around him. He seemed to look right at her. She thought he must hear her heart pounding; she felt like a trapped animal. He belched and scratched himself, then started down the steps. She shrunk from him, pressing herself into the rubble as he came toward her. But he kept on, lurching past her so close he could have touched her, and went on down the street toward the square. She watched him cross the square, a black figure striking across the pale cobbles toward the Set.

She listened for other noises from inside. When all had been silent for some time, she swallowed dryly, slipped up the stairs, and began to lift the heavy door. She got it open without sound and stood in the dark hallway. Where would Mama be? Not in her own room, surely. But she turned, and began to push open Mama’s door, willing her eyes to see.

The moonlight through the window cast itself across a sleeping form in Mama’s bed. Zephy crept in. The figure was big, and as she stood listening, it groaned. She edged backward, to get out. A whisper stopped her.

“Zephy?” Mama’s hand was on her arm, pulling her away from the bed, from the moonlight. Then Mama’s arms were around her.

*

At last, shaken with crying, they huddled in the far corner of the room away from the sleeping Kearb-Mattus who, wounded, had been brought to the best room in the Inn. It was to tend Kearb-Mattus that Mama had been sent for. He had awakened only once since Mama had arrived, but his bandages were clean now, and his wounds had been doctored with dolba leaf. “There are other wounded in the longroom. I am to nurse them and Kearb-Mattus. Tra. Hoppa cooked their supper.” They had caught Tra. Hoppa, then.

“Where is she?”

“In the loft. Sleeping in the loft.”

“Mama . . .”

“You must go away, Zephy. I don’t know whether what Tra. Hoppa said was true, I don’t want to know. But they will surely kill you, the Kubalese will kill you if they find you. They won’t wait for Kearb-Mattus.”

“We can go now, we—”

“I cannot go with you.”

Zephy froze, staring. “What do you mean?”

“I am needed here.”

“Needed! Needed by the Kubalese?” Her voice raised so that Mama grabbed and hushed her. “Needed by those who have destroyed us?” she hissed.

“I am needed by Kearb-Mattus. No matter what the Kubalese have done, I cannot leave him.”

“But you—”

“You can slip food from the sculler if you’re careful. Take Nida, she can carry blankets and a waterskin.”

Zephy clung to her. “What if he dies? What will they do to you then?”

“I will not let him die.”

“I could stay with you . . .” Did Mama feel for Kearb-Mattus the same pain that Zephy herself felt for Thorn? Would a grown woman suffer the same awful agony?

“You cannot stay with me. You must go now. Tomorrow they will kill you. It won’t be forever, Zephy. Go to Carriol, you can go along the edge of the mountain. You’ll be safe in Carriol. Cloffi—Cloffi cannot stay enslaved forever.”

Did Mama know about the Kubalese plan for conquering all of Ere? Had she known, before the attack? Zephy could not bring herself to ask. Mama’s back was to the window, Zephy could not see her expression. She clung to Mama, but at last Mama pushed her away. “Hurry, Zephy. You cannot stay here.”

“Then I must take Tra. Hoppa.”

Mama stared at her in the near darkness; Zephy could feel her concern. Then she turned silently, and led Zephy toward the door.

As they started up the dark stairs, it seemed to Zephy that Mama had pulled away from her in a subtle way; as if they were no longer mother and daughter, but were equal in something. As if each must do what she must, without taking heed of the other. It was hard, it made her ache inside. But it was fine, too. Mama was letting her go, shoving her out. If she was not ready to leave, that could not be helped. The time dictated the need.

Together they climbed the steps and the ladder. They found Tra. Hoppa sitting in the window just as Zephy had sat so many nights, staring down at the littered, moonlit streets, at the sacked town.

They stripped the beds of blankets and Zephy’s goatskin robe, then went silently out the front and down the alley to the sculler, where they gathered food to fill two baskets. At last Zephy and Tra. Hoppa were out on the street. It was but an instant since she had stood encircled by Mama’s arms, and now Mama was closing the sculler door between them for what might be forever.

Zephy went ahead. They did not speak. Each was loaded with bundles. Tra. Hoppa took her sleeve once, when she saw which way Zephy was headed. Zephy stopped to whisper, “There are Children in the tunnel.” They went on again in silence. The moons were sinking.

When they reached the square, they froze, then backed deeper into the shadow of a building, for there were soldiers there, dark shapes gathered before the statue silently working at something. They had tied great ropes to the extended arms of the Luff’Eresi, and around his wings, and around the heads of the Horses of Eresu. Now suddenly they began to heave forward on their straining mounts. They were trying to pull down the statue. They meant to destroy the people’s god-image—and in so doing, they would discover the tunnel. The men shouted, the horses hunched, the statue creaked. Zephy clutched Tra. Hoppa’s hand and they ran back through the narrow streets, then through the gardens, dropping their bundles there, ran on until they reached the plum grove.

Zephy wrenched the stone back, and they plunged down into the darkness, gulping for breath. “Elodia?” Zephy cried over the creaking of the statue and the wild shouting of the Kubalese. “Elodia!”

There was no answer from the tunnel. They ran blindly. Zephy thought unreasonably that if she could find the niche, the stone would be waiting, that it would help them. Despite common sense, she felt along the wall and stopped at last, plunging her hand in.

Of course it was not there. She was wasting time.

Then she heard Elodia speaking softly in the darkness. The baby whimpered. She heard Tra. Hoppa speak to him as if she had taken him from Elodia. She felt Toca’s small hand in hers, and they were running as the statue groaned above them.

The baby began to cry, then stopped as if Tra. Hoppa had clapped her hand over his mouth. They stumbled and bumped each other in the darkness, then at last they saw moonlight through the hole. Zephy pushed ahead and crawled up into the grove. Nothing stirred there; though in the shadows under the trees . . . She snatched the heavy baby from Tra. Hoppa; he was warm and soft against her, and he smelled bad. The others climbed out and they ran across the gardens, grabbing up their bundles, the dry mawzee rattling around them.

When at last they reached the pens, the donkeys were stirring restlessly. Zephy held the others back and stood listening. Could she see a shape in the blackness? Then Tra. Hoppa’s hand pressed her down. They crouched, hardly breathing. The smell of rotting charp fruit was strong around them.

There was a soft snuffling but that could be the donkeys. Then a low grumble, so muted that Zephy could not be sure whether it was human sound or animal. Then they heard a sharp snort, a pounding of hooves, a harsh Kubalese swear word; and a steady cantering away, toward the square. There had been a mounted Kubalese soldier there, the animal must have shied. Zephy removed her hand slowly from across the baby’s mouth. They could hear the horse brushing through the gardens, then clattering along the cobbles farther away. It must have been a guard, waiting out his stint there in the darkness. Would another come now, even though a predawn light had begun to glow in the east?

Then they heard the other sound. The groaning, a wrench of metal, and the crash. The statue had been brought down.

Zephy rose and found the shed, groped for Nida’s saddle and halter in the darkness, and began to saddle the fidgeting donkey. Dess, who wasn’t being touched at all, kicked at her evilly.

The saddle felt strange, mucky, as if it were coated with dirt. But it was surely Nida’s saddle, Dess’s pack bars were different. Besides, she could feel the tear in the skirt, where straw oozed out. Then she realized the Deacons must have taken Nida’s saddle instead of Dess’s to carry Meatha. She leaned over and smelled the leather. It smelled of the gutter, all right. She shuddered. But she continued to fasten the straps, there was no time to change. Besides, Nida was used to her own saddle, it fit her right. Dess backed up to kick again, and Zephy drove her off with a slap.

When the saddle was secure and the packages tied on, she lifted the fat baby on top—he smelled no worse than the saddle—and they started off through the upper housegardens; they must cross the northerly whitebarley field. Toca crowded close, stepping on Zephy’s heels. When the baby began to fuss, she covered his mouth with her free hand, lurching against the donkey.

“He feels our fear,” Elodia whispered. “Think of something safe and warm.” Zephy tried, but she was far too afraid to make her thought convincing. When they stepped out onto the stubble of the whitebarley field, the crackle alarmed her so she drew back quickly, pulling the donkey away. “We’ll have to go around,” she whispered, and started east along the edge of the -field. Already the sky was too light. She pushed Nida to a faster walk, then a trot. She could hear Tra. Hoppa’s quick breathing. It must be hard on the old woman, no sleep, the fear and tension, and now this lunging flight.

When Toca began to lag behind, Zephy set the little boy up behind Bibb. “Hold onto the baby, Toca. Not too hard,” she added, at Bibb’s indignant grunt. Then she froze . . .

Behind them a horse had snorted, and now there were galloping hoofbeats. “Run! Oh, run!” she whispered, pushing the donkey into a canter and trying to hold Toca and Bibb both as she ran along side; they ran until they were breathless, but when Zephy looked back she could see nothing; then the ear-splitting wail of a donkey rose behind her, and Dess lurched into view, running at full clip.

Zephy pulled Nida up, exhausted, exasperated, and glowered at Dess. The fool donkey had surely alerted the Kubalese.

Dess fetched up close to Nida, shoving Zephy aside. Quickly, Zephy stole a rope from the blanket pack, secured her, and gave the responsibility of her to Elodia. They went on to the top of the first rise as fast as they could and down it as the sky began to lighten in earnest.

They had put three rises behind them when the Kubalese patrol came riding out along the east edge of town and up in the direction of Dunoon. Three soldiers loomed on the skyline as the little band knelt in a shallow. Zephy could not make the donkeys lie down, never having needed to before, and only hoped their gray color would hide them. Tra. Hoppa held Toca’s hand, and winked conspiratorially at him. Elodia had taken the baby in her arms and was concentrating on keeping him still, pushing a feeling of quiet into him until he lay relaxed, staring happily up into the little girl’s face.

After an eternity, Zephy crept up the side of the rise and looked over, then sighed thankfully. The patrol was a dark line going up the mountain.

But what did they want in Dunoon?

When she looked back toward the east, the sun was coming up. They could not climb the rises now, it had grown too light: they must go around, in the low places.

It was a slow tedious business, making their way so, and the day was indeed bright when at last they slipped behind the first boulders at the foot of the mountain. Zephy half expected to see the Kubalese patrol waiting for them, but there was nothing, only the tall black boulders and some stunted grass, and the mountain, sheer as a wall. But there were breaks in that wall where the thrusting columns of stone overlapped. Now they could travel unseen, among those jutting columns. And now Zephy must decide: would they go east to safety or west toward Dunoon, where her heart tugged? To the east lay Carriol, and shelter. To the west was a burned, defeated village patrolled by the Kubalese.

She led the band straight into the mountain between tall black stones, then began to wind among the jagged pillars until she found, at last, a protected place where the donkeys could rest and graze. Dess lurched at once into the tallest stand of grass, her ears flat back to her head. Above them, the sablevine was already turning copper with the coming of winter. Zephy undid the food bundle and set it on a rock and passed Elodia the milk jug. The younger girl’s sandy hair and gray, steady eyes made her look older than nine. Or maybe it was her expression. There was a touch of sadness about Elodia that was not childlike. “How did you manage without water?” Zephy asked. “I half expected . . . I thought you might be gone, that you might have come out.”

“We did come out. In the night, late when it was quiet Or, I did. I took water and food from Tra. Hoppa’s house,” she said, grinning at Tra. Hoppa. She pulled up her tunic and showed them the lumpy linen package hanging from her waist. It contained scallions and dry bread and a bit of berry cake. She shared this out equally, and they sat eating and staring about them at the lifting, monolithic stones that stood black and silent around them.

They could see a bit of the valley, and Burgdeeth directly below. They could not see Kubal to the east or the low hills that separated it from Cloffi. And the desert lands on their right were cut off by an outcropping of stone.

Zephy watched Elodia as the child began to draw away from them in her mind, her face turning inward. She was seeing something, or she was hearing something. They all became very quiet; Zephy tried to make herself receptive, but she could not. Elodia’s hand stroked the dirty leather of Nida’s saddle as if she were stroking something else entirely, in another place. And when at last she came back to them, she did so suddenly, seemed to see Zephy so suddenly that she gave a start. Then she said flatly, “Dunoon is burned. The patrol rides through it, all black. There is no one. They are going to go back down the river. They—they make a fear in me.”

“No one?” Zephy said. “No one?”

“I don’t think so. Not in the village, the huts are empty!” But now Elodia’s voice was uncertain.

Zephy rose and went to stand among the boulders. When she came back to them at last, she could say only, “I must go to Dunoon. And you must wait for me.”

*

They climbed the rocks until they found a secure place so high it seemed nearly at the top of the Ring of Fire, though of course it was not. They pushed between boulders until they found a minute valley with a shallow cave at one side. They rolled several stones across the valley entrance, then turned the donkeys loose. The baby drank the last of the milk from the jug and went to sleep at once.

This was foolishness, to leave these four alone. But she knew she must go to Dunoon; she could think of nothing else. And she must not send them on ahead. Tra. Hoppa did not try to change her mind; it seemed to Zephy that Tra. Hoppa knew there were currents and forces moving around her that she herself could not touch. And Elodia—the feeling from Elodia was one of silent support. As if the younger girl read, could touch, the depth of whatever pulled at Zephy so strongly.

She had made no explanation to them about Anchorstar, about the stone. Something held her back. If something happened in Dunoon, if she did not return, they would be safe in Carriol. They had the donkeys and food. When she returned, she would tell them. She thought once that perhaps she should make her pledge Elodia’s pledge, too, so the younger girl could carry on. But then she turned resolutely away, looking toward Dunoon.

She took a little food, accepted Elodia’s cloak, and started off alone. She took no waterskin. She could move lighter and quicker without, and there were places among the black rock where little springs seeped down. She could hear the sharp call of a flock of otero diving after insects above her, and once the sweet clear cry of a mabin bird, filling her with a terrible longing. There was no other sound save an occasional pebble she dislodged. The sun was moving down toward the horizon ahead of her so its brightness blinded her except when part of the mountain cut it off.

Then she came around a tall stone shelf to see another group of Kubalese soldiers coming straight up toward Dunoon, riding fast; she was close enough to Dunoon now to catch an occasional glimpse of the clearing and the blackened huts. She stood in the shadow of a stone, watching the ascending riders; only when they were just at the lower pastures of Dunoon, below the village, did they spread out so some were riding directly toward her. She spun around, frantic for a place to hide.

She found only a small chink between outcroppings and she wedged herself there, where a horse could not come, and stood still, hardly breathing, wondering if her light tunic would be like a signal flag; she pulled the cloak around herself, wanting to run; but she knew she must be still.

She heard them come: a clatter of hooves struck stone close to her; she could smell the sweat of the horses and of the men. She heard them climb above her, then stop suddenly. There was a sharp command to dismount. She stood as helpless and palpitating as a bird caught in a net.

Then at last she heard the command to climb, and some swearing. They had not seen her after all. They were up there scrambling over the rocks and had left their horses tethered.

She could take them!

Yes, and be tracked from here to Carriol. And what could Kubalese horses do, climbing these mountains? Like a cow on a window ledge, she thought. She collected her wits and slipped quickly down toward the plateau where Dunoon lay blackened, listening for signs of their return. She must keep to the shadows until they were gone, lest they see her from above. She must keep close to the mountain.

When she came around the last stone spire that hid the plateau, she saw the other five. She could hear their voices but could not make out what they said, or what they searched for among the huts. Could they be looking for her and Tra. Hoppa, or perhaps for missing Children? She strained to understand their words, but only an occasional one was clear.

They mounted at last and went on up the river and into the black canyon. Zephy looked back and up, but could not see the first band. She ran headlong for the huts, then stood hidden in the doorway of the first, peering back up the mountain.

The stench of the burned thatch made her eyes water. The sight of the burned furniture, the broken crocks and blackened bits of clothing, sickened her. Did human bodies lie here? She could not bend down to look and backed out feeling sick.

Yet she knew she must look.

The thatch was all burned away above her head, only blackened wisps against the sky. She went from cottage to cottage not knowing what she expected to find, and unable to stop herself. Again and again she paused to stare up the mountain, thinking each time to see dark shapes descending.

She came at last to Thorn’s own cottage. She entered, staring around her helplessly at the mass of blackened rubble, the burned table, a chair. At last she went away again out along the edge of the village toward the river.

On the other side of the fast water, some little gray nut trees spread their branches to the ground, offering cover. She pulled off her shoes, ran to the river, and crossed it. The water was deliciously cool on her feet. She came out reluctantly and slipped behind some rocks, then started up along it in the cover of the trees.

Did the shadows of the cleft seem too dense? Did something move there? But in spite of her fear, she felt drawn to the cleft, and when at last she entered the dark canyon, it seemed quite empty; it was silent until, as she slipped through its shadows and turned into the cave, a whirring noise made her go cold.

But it was only a startled bird. She entered the cave, her heart pounding, and stood in the darkness to listen.