The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 6

  When day began fading to night, the barbarians called a halt. The stillness of the drag-cradle came as a blessed relief. Fern walked out in front of Carnelian, his face haggard, his legs and cloak splattered with mud. He was motioning instructions. Carnelian felt a tremor in the frame. Turning his head, he saw brown hands holding on to the wood.

  ‘What’re they doing?’ he asked.

  Fern glanced down at him. ‘Unhitching your drag-cradle from my aquar.’

  His dark eyes flicked away. The frame gave a shudder that awoke Carnelian’s pain. With a rasping, he felt the poles come free even as the aquar’s tail started feeding away over him, its tip dragging up the blankets towards his face. He closed his eyes, anticipating its touch, but then he felt the frame being lowered to the ground.

  He opened his eyes and blinked away the rain. ‘What news of the dragons?’ he said to no one in particular.

  Fern loomed over him, issuing instructions in their barbarian tongue. Carnelian could hear the suck and splash of footfalls as the youths moved away.

  Fern’s face came close enough to Carnelian’s that it sheltered him from the rain. He examined Fern’s brown eyes. He could smell him and feel the heat of his anger.

  Fern bared his teeth. ‘Don’t imagine they’ll rescue you. I’d kill you myself before I let that happen.’

  He disappeared. When the constant patter of rain on Carnelian’s face had cooled his own anger, he began to wonder if he was going to be left all night in the rain. When Fern returned, it was to force some strips of leather into Carnelian’s mouth which he had to chew or else choke. It was only as his mouth began to fill with musty flavour that he realized it was dried meat.

  For days, Carnelian was dragged through a constant pelting rain. His blankets clung heavy and sodden. Often the mud grew so deep the poles stuck fast. As Fern’s aquar struggled to break loose, Carnelian would suffer with each shudder. Though the barbarians were always hidden from him, he could hear the desperation in their voices as they urged their aquar on. Their march was a monotonous slap and suck amidst the downpour. Carnelian knew they were sending lookouts ahead. A voice would shout something down from the sky. The raiders would not pause but would continue on until the kraal tower would slide into Carnelian’s view and he would watch it shrink and fade.

  Each evening as the day was squeezed black by the rumbling sky, Fern fed him more strips of dried meat. Carnelian lubricated his chewing by opening his mouth and letting it fill with rain. When asked, Fern would confirm Osidian’s condition unchanged. His moroseness discouraged conversation. Ravan was often there, resentful as he helped his brother with the feeding, with the unhitching, with the hitching that every morning freed Carnelian from the blinding rain. As he was angled up he was able to blink his eyes open and peer blearily at the infinite, drear monotony of the Guarded Land.

  Against that landscape, Fern and his brother were often the only living things Carnelian could see. He became intuitive in reading their moods, seeing past the masks of fear they wore. Their grief was deepening and he felt he knew the cause: he could not recall the last time he had heard their father’s voice.

  The raiders pressed on towards Makar. Each day that passed put another twist of dread into their stomachs as they searched the horizon for the scouring line and its dragons.

  The drag-cradle came suddenly to a halt. Carnelian heard Ravan cry out, then Fern. Young voices were making a commotion. Carnelian shook himself out of his stupor, anxious to know what was going on. Facing away from the barbarians, all he could do was strain to pick out their voices.

  ‘Does he live?’ asked Ranegale. There were some words Carnelian could not catch, then: ‘Put him back in his saddle-chair.’

  ‘We must make another cradle.’ Fern’s voice, sounding frightened.

  ‘We’ve no time for that,’ said Ranegale.

  ‘We’ll make time.’ Cloud’s voice. ‘Do you really believe he’d be lying there in the mud, if he had the strength to ride?’

  ‘He gave you the cord, Cloud. How many knots does it hold now?’

  For a while Carnelian could hear only the whispering of the youths.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Our best hope is that whatever’s delaying the scouring line will keep it in Makar for five days more. That’s already bleak enough don’t you think, Father Cloud? And now you’ve decided to back Fern in what will cause us at least half a day’s delay.’

  ‘Let’s dump one of the Standing Dead,’ said Ravan. ‘My one’s fever is going to get him anyway so we might as well use his cradle for my father.’

  Ranegale’s nasal voice rose to a bellow: ‘No. We need them both alive.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Cloud.

  There was a silence during which Carnelian struggled but the leather bands were too tight.

  ‘Why doesn’t my father let us all in on his plan to get through the scouring line should we run into it.’

  ‘My plan is that which Stormrane trusted me with. We fire some kraals and when the auxiliaries come to see what’s happening we slip through the gap they leave in the line.’

  There were murmurs of support.

  ‘So you all feel this is a good plan, eh? I’d like to see you set fire to rain-sodden wood.’

  Voices rose in protest.

  ‘Listen. Listen! That’s not really important. If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you what is. Have you any idea how close the roads have come on either side of us?’

  They all fell silent.

  ‘I can see you do. Well, imagine now how close together the aquar twenties will be in the line. It will be a city wall with dragons as its towers. Most of us have seen how fast dragons can move and we all know perfectly well how swift unburdened aquar run. The Standing Dead in the dragons’ towers will spot us the moment we make a break for it. They’ll close the gap like this.’

  A slap like whiplash.

  ‘Then we’ll just have to creep through at night,’ said Fern.

  ‘If you’d stayed in the legions more than a few days you wouldn’t be saying anything so stupid. They’ll set their fires close enough for their light to overlap. Even if they didn’t we’d never be able to time it. No. If we run into them there’s only one way we’ll get through. We’ll have to move one of the dragons out of line.’

  Everyone began shouting at once. Carnelian strained to hear Ranegale’s voice among the others. He caught the phrase, ‘Standing Dead’. The hubbub quietened.

  ‘We’ll leave them both, or maybe just one of them, in a kraal to be found by the auxiliaries.’

  ‘Rather than suffer death for having looked on them, they’d murder them,’ said Fern. ‘How would their commanders ever find out?’

  ‘We’ll tie them up to the kraal’s outer wall so they can be seen from the dragon towers. Of course the poor bastards will all die for seeing our Standing Dead, but it’ll bring a dragon. With luck, more than one.’

  ‘And you think this would make a breach in their line big enough for us to race through?’ asked Cloud. From the tone of his voice Carnelian could tell the Elder was already half convinced.

  ‘You’re going to hand them over alive?’ asked Fern, incredulous.

  ‘If we give them corpses, the auxiliaries will leave them guarded in a kraal and then hunt us down,’ said Ranegale.

  ‘And alive, our Standing Dead will bring them down on us like lightning,’ said Fern.

  ‘Can you imagine the confusion when they find two living Standing Dead out here? Dead they’ll bring down swift vengeance: alive, perhaps they’ll open us a door in the scouring line. We’ll flee towards Makar. Once we reach the pass we’ll lose any pursuit. They’ll never find us in the Earthsky.’

  ‘They’ll close the pass against us,’ said Fern.

  ‘Their laws forbid it for at least another twenty days.’

  ‘Don’t you think they’ll overturn their laws to avenge two of their own?’

  ‘Cloud, give me the reckoning cord.’

  Carnelian c
ould hear the movement of an aquar.

  ‘Look at how few knots lie between us and Makar. If this cloud cover holds they won’t be able to use the speaking mirrors. Their couriers, we might outrun.’

  ‘With drag-cradles?’ asked Cloud.

  ‘We’ll have to ditch those,’ said Ranegale. ‘Glare all you like, Fern. You know as well as I do there’s no other way.’

  ‘Fern,’ Cloud said. ‘You can cut their hearts out, take them home and, in your koppie, give them to the sky.’

  ‘What about my father?’ Fern demanded.

  ‘Ranegale, are you sure we need both the Standing Dead?’ Loskai interrupted.

  ‘They’re our only hope and one of them already looks like he might die,’ said Ranegale. ‘Besides, we might be able to use the trick twice to widen the opening in the line. We daren’t throw away any chance.’

  ‘What … about … my … father?’ Ravan squeezed the words out one at a time through his rage.

  As the barbarians fell to arguing Carnelian closed his eyes. The pain in Ravan’s voice had awoken in him a memory of the anguish he had known on the road when his own wounded father had been close to death. He forced himself to work out what he should do. When he had it, to make sure they would listen, he hardened his heart and became a Master. When he spoke, his voice had the characteristic resonance of power.

  ‘What is all that noise about?’

  The arguing died. Carnelian felt the judder as Fern jumped down from his saddle-chair. He heard the sucking footfalls of aquar approaching. The ground trembled as they began moving round into sight. Barbarian faces frowned down at him, then Fern appeared at his side. Seeing the pain in his face, Carnelian faltered, dropping the attempt at imperiousness.

  ‘Tell me what all the arguing is about. Please.’

  Ranegale’s eye flashed. ‘Why should we tell you anything?’

  Fern looked to Cloud, who shrugged. ‘What harm can it do?’

  Once he had Fern’s gaze again, Carnelian held it as the man began recounting the arguments.

  ‘Well then,’ Carnelian said, when Fern was done. ‘The solution is simple. Your father must lie here and I’ll take his place in the saddle-chair.’

  Ravan stared. Ranegale sneered through the cloth wrapped around his face, ‘We might not be angels, Master, but that doesn’t make us fools.’

  Without disengaging his eyes, from Carnelian’s, Fern said: ‘He wouldn’t try to escape as long as we hold the other Master. They’re brothers.’

  ‘Will he be any more able to ride than Stormrane?’ asked Cloud.

  Carnelian had seen the hope that had come into Fern’s eyes. Though he had understood Cloud’s words, he made Fern translate them for him.

  ‘Do you believe I’m as enfeebled as your father?’ he asked him.

  Fern’s pain and grief turned to anger. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Carnelian wanted to tell him that he understood; that once his own father had been wounded. The word ‘compassion’ was on his lips, but he swallowed it. It was not a word they would believe coming from a Master’s mouth.

  ‘I wish to ensure you use Ranegale’s plan. I know you’ll not leave your father behind.’ He glanced at Ranegale. ‘In the end I don’t think even he would leave him behind … not alive anyway. If they found your father alive, the legion would get from him the name of your tribe. You’re wise to fear the Masters. If they can, they will exterminate you and all your people for what you’ve seen and done. Other options will cause a delay. Any delay makes it more likely you’ll be forced to try Stormrane’s plan. If you managed to elude the line, what would you do with us? I fear you would kill us, hide us in the earth, hope the vengeance of the Masters would be blinded and not find you.’

  Ranegale’s eye glared down at Carnelian. ‘Have you considered, Master, that speed might bring us to Makar before the legion sets out?’

  The blankets suppressed Carnelian’s shrug. ‘I’d consider it if your voice weren’t telling me you don’t believe it yourself.’

  Ranegale frowned and Carnelian saw he had the knotted cord pulled tight between his fists. ‘Free him and we’ll see if he can ride.’

  Fern released the bands that bound Carnelian to the drag-cradle, then peeled off the sodden blankets. The eyes of the barbarians on him, Carnelian turned with a groan to clutch one of the drag-cradle’s poles. He allowed Fern to help him up. Ravan hung around in the background, uncertain whether to help. Tottering, Carnelian forced his spine straight. He took some steps towards the kneeling aquar swimming at the centre of his vision. He leaned on Fern, who, somehow, managed to help him into the saddle-chair.

  ‘Her name’s Blur,’ Fern whispered in Carnelian’s ear.

  At his touch the aquar rose, thrusting Carnelian up towards the stormy sky. He clawed hold of the chair.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Fern asked.

  Carnelian nodded. Ravan and the others were lifting Stormrane into the drag-cradle. Fern was freeing something from the side of the saddle-chair. Glancing down, Carnelian saw it was a spear. His eyes followed the haft to the head. He stared.

  ‘Sky-metal,’ he said, in Quya.

  ‘What?’ said Fern.

  Carnelian pointed at the rusty iron spearhead that was the length of his hand.

  Fern frowned at the spear. ‘It is my father’s, passed down through his line from father to son.’ His frown deepened as he hefted it. Carnelian wondered if Fern was considering that it might soon pass to him.

  ‘It’s a precious heirloom.’

  Fern regarded him. ‘I shall not claim it.’

  ‘You know its worth?’

  ‘I’m not my father’s true son,’ he said, bitterly.

  Carnelian realized Fern and the other barbarians could have no idea they had in their possession fabulous wealth. Though, when he considered it, it was wealth that could not easily be realized. Who but the Masters could afford such a treasure? To offer iron for sale was more likely to bring death than riches.

  Fern was speaking. ‘Can you move further up the chair?’ He tapped the spear on the crossbeam of bundled rods that ran transversely across the aquar’s back and stuck out on either side. ‘Grip this with the back of your knees.’

  Carnelian’s buttocks were hard against it. As he pushed himself up the chair he felt as if his back were tearing apart. He was hardly aware of Fern’s hand helping him.

  ‘The chair’s too small for you but we don’t have the time to adjust it now.’

  He helped Carnelian angle his shins so he could get his feet to the aquar’s back.

  ‘She’s used to my father and will not respond well to kicking. If you lift your feet from her back, she’ll kneel. To move right or left, apply more pressure on that side. To make her pick up speed, rock your feet from heel to toe.’ He took hold of one of Blur’s three-fingered hands to keep her steady. ‘Try it.’

  Carnelian found it was harder than it sounded. Feeling his foot being gripped, he leaned forward to watch Fern moving it in the way he had described. Sensing Carnelian’s eyes on him, Fern let the foot go.

  ‘To stop her, dig your heels in.’

  Carnelian made some ineffectual attempts to follow the instructions. Fern twitched a smile at him.

  ‘You’ll pick it up. For the moment, just make sure you keep your feet flat on her back and she’ll shoal with the others.’

  As Fern had said, Blur maintained her position in the midst of the other aquar with no need of Carnelian’s directing. But he failed to find a posture in which her every footfall did not jar his spine.

  Carnelian was trying to doze when it occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from seeing Osidian. Recalling Fern’s instructions, he dug his heels gently into his aquar’s back. Blur slowed and the other aquar began passing by on either side. As she came to a halt, Carnelian searched the drag-cradles. There were four. Two carried Fern’s uncle and brother, their corpse faces slimy with rain. In another he recognized Stormrane’s grey tousled head. Furthest aw
ay, the fourth held nothing that looked like Osidian. Carnelian heard Ranegale’s cry and looked up to see him stopped and looking round. Carnelian hardly noticed Fern coming up to Ranegale and paid no attention to their quarrelling. The whole group were beginning to pull away from him.

  He focused his attention on the fourth drag-cradle and tried to apply Fern’s lessons. Rocking both his feet from heel to toe, he made Blur begin walking. He tried putting more pressure on his left foot. Sweat running down his back, he held to his purpose and, to his delight, Blur veered towards the cradle. When they were near it, he sagged back and left it to her to match her stride smoothly to the rest.

  The drag-cradle looked like the pupae of some monstrous butterfly. He managed to find a face, but did not immediately recognize it as Osidian’s. Faded to brown, the bitumen made the white skin showing through appear to be leprosy. He could see nothing of the familiar beauty, nor any sign of life. There seemed not enough of the man he loved even to make Carnelian grieve. Osidian’s life had reversed the order of things. He was a butterfly who had returned to melt his beauty into the filthy casing of a chrysalis. Carnelian could not bear to imagine what of Osidian might survive. It was better he should die. How could there be a life for him worth having in this outer world? Should Ranegale’s plan work they might be found and then, no doubt, be returned to Osrakum. Even if Osidian were to reach there alive, he would suffer the death the Law decreed for those who were brothers to a new God Emperor. Over his corpse, Carnelian would accuse those responsible for the kidnapping, the defilement. He would unmask Ykoriana and Jaspar’s schemes. He would liberate his father from whatever punishment they had inflicted on him. He, Suth Carnelian, would have his revenge on all of them. He closed his eyes, savouring it.

  Laughter rattled his chest like a fit of coughing. It seemed the greatest irony that it was only now he had become a slave and captive that he should have finally acquired the taste for vengeance of a true Master.

  Slow lightning was playing over the bellies of the clouds.