scurrying little humans below us. Never forget that word: for it is the one supreme fact of this entire history. Those soil-crusted, furtive beings that spark such curiosity in you are human. The people of Broken allowed themselves to forget as much, for centuries; and on tempestuous Moonlit nights below the windswept peak of the terrible mountain, you may yet hear the wail of their condemned souls, as they bemoan their most grievous error …
1:{ii:}
Of the Bane: their plight, their exploits, and their
outrages; and of the first of several remarkable events witnessed
this night by three of them …
The scent given off by the three hurrying forms is odd — less human even than their stature. But of their many peculiarities, this one is their own doing: for to be identified as human in Davon Wood is to be marked as easy meat, and so they work hard to disguise their odor. This means, first, the use of dead leaves, plants, and rich soil from the forest floor, as well as water, when they have it to spare, to scour their bodies free of sweat, grease and food, and the remnants of their own waste. They then apply fluids drained from the scent bags of animals both clawed and cloven-hoofed, and the result of this careful preparation is that even the cleverest predators, along with the most observant prey, become confused upon the approach of the three travelers, an effect heightened by the incongruous aromas that arise from the burgeoning deerskin sacks they carry on their shoulders. The tantalizing fragrances of the Wood’s rarest herbs, roots, and flowers; the crisp smell of medicinal rocks and bones; and the hint of fear from a few small cages and traps that contain captured songbirds and rare, gregarious tree shrews; these and more besides blend to increase the threesome’s chances of never being precisely identified. Thus do these small, cunning souls achieve near-mastery of Davon Wood.
The three are of the Bane, a tribe made up of exiles from the city on the mountain, as well as the descendants of those who suffered similar punishment; a tribe whose survival in the Wood is ensured by foraging parties like this one, which are dispatched to seek out rare goods prized in Broken for their curative or pleasuring qualities. In return for undertaking risks that even the desperately avaricious merchants of Broken will not dare, the Bane receive in trade from those same merchants certain cultivated foodstuffs that cannot be grown in the forest, as well as such rudimentary bronze and iron implements as the rulers of the great city feel it safe for the exiles to possess. Woodland foraging, even for the Bane, is dangerous work, and the governing council of the tribe — called the Groba†—will send only the cleverest and most daring of their men and women to do it. This sometimes includes (as in the case of our three foragers) those who have broken the tribe’s laws: a productive term of foraging can absolve such ungovernable souls of all but the worst of sins, and cure almost any tendency toward their repetition, so great are the hazards encountered during the span of these missions. As for those who undertake foraging willingly, out of concern for the tribe, they can expect to receive high honors from the Groba — should they return with both their bodies and their minds intact.
Thus the Bane have survived in the Wood: and over the course of two centuries they have developed a society, laws — in fact, a civilization, bestial though it looks to their uneasy neighbors. They even speak the language of Broken, though so inventive a race has modified the tongue:
The forager who travels to the rear of the quick-moving pack has spat the insult (an urgent if impractical suggestion that its object withdraw and fornicate with himself) at the tribesman in front of him; yet no sooner has he done so than his face — a blur of scars interrupted only by two hard grey eyes and an enormous black gap amid his teeth, the remaining number of which are ground to sharp points — turns about, to search for any danger approaching from behind. His lips, split so many times by blows that they might be those of an aged man, curl into an ugly frown of disgust as his whispered insults go on; but the clear, cutting eyes never cease to scan the forest expertly. “You always were a lying sack of bitch’s turd, Veloc,†† but
“The Moon’s truth, Heldo-Bah!” the one called Veloc answers indignantly (for the Bane still worship the patron of Old Broken). Veloc’s round, dark eyes spark and his well-formed jaw sets firmly, an attitude of defiance that ripples through his shoulders as he makes certain that first his deerskin foraging sack and then his finely worked short bow and arrows are in place. Save for his size, he would be considered handsome, even in Broken (indeed, at least a few women of the city do secretly think him so, when he breaks Bane law and steals within the mighty walls), but he is no less alert for his looks: despite the heat of argument, he watches the thick tangle to either side of the speeding column as carefully as his comrade studies the rear. “It seems I must remind you that I was nominated for the post of Historian of the Bane Tribe — and that the Groba Fathers almost approved the post!”
Heldo-Bah bounds a fallen ash, scarcely jostling his sack of goods and grumbling, “Great collection of granite-brained eunuchs …” At the sound of twigs cracking in the distance, he suddenly produces his favored weapons: a set of three throwing knives originally taken from an eastern marauder by a soldier of Broken, one who was later unlucky enough to encounter Heldo-Bah across a tavern table in Broken’s trading center on the Meloderna River, the walled town of Daurawah.† “There’s no need to remind me of anything, Veloc! Lies breed like groin rot, and ‘historians’ are only the whores who spread it—”
“Enough!” The command, though issued by a woman of even smaller stature than the men, is instantly obeyed; for this is Keera, round-faced, dusty-haired, and the most skilled tracker in the whole of the Bane tribe. At three feet eleven inches tall, Keera is shorter than Heldo-Bah by two inches, while her brother Veloc stands taller than her by a full three; but no advantage of height can outweigh her knowledge of life in the Wood, and her quarrelsome companions are accustomed to doing as she says without question, resentment, or hesitation.
Keera deftly leaps onto the rotting stump of a collapsed oak, her knowing blue eyes seeing in the forest ahead what no other human can discern. Heldo-Bah’s expression has changed aspect from angry annoyance to concern with a speed that is almost clownish, and characteristic of his tempestuous moods. “What is it, Keera?” he whispers urgently. “Wolves? I thought I heard one.”
Wolves in Davon Wood grow to extraordinary sizes, and are more than a match for any three Bane — even these three. Keera, however, shakes her head slowly, and answers: “A panther.” Veloc’s face, too, fills with apprehension, while Heldo-Bah’s shows childlike panic. The solitary, silent Davon panthers — which can reach lengths of twelve feet, and weights of many hundreds of pounds — are the largest and most efficient killers known, each as lethal as a pack of wolves and, like all cats, nearly impossible to detect before they strike. They are particularly fond of the caves and rocks near the Cat’s Paw.
Keera listens intently to the Wood, leaning forward on a worked maple staff with which she has humbled more men than would ever admit to the experience. “I sensed him some time ago,” she murmurs. “But I do not believe he stalks us. His movements are — strange …” She cocks her head. “Hafften Falls†—near the river. The rocks are high and hidden, hereabouts — good ground for panthers.
“They’re made of nothing but fat and gristle!” whispers Heldo-Bah.
“We’re going, are we not?” Keera answers sternly. “But stop drawing attention to us with your eternal grumbling!”
“It’s not my fault, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says, tossing his own torch on the ground before Veloc. “Tell your fool brother. These lies of his—”
“They’re not lies, Heldo-Bah — it’s history!” Veloc’s face and voice grow improbably pompous, as he produces sparks for the three torches that he has sunk into the moist Earth in front of him: “If you choose to ignore facts, then you’re the fool — and the simple fact is, long before Broken, all men were of roughly the same height. The Bane did not exist, nor did the Tall — the names meant nothing. It has been recorded, Heldo-Bah!”
Heldo-Bah grunts: “Yes — by you, no doubt. Written on the rump of some other man’s wife!” Glancing about
