he was already dead.”
“Excellent.” Caliphestros urges Stasi a little closer to the corpse, glancing at it again for as long as he can tolerate the stench. “Thus we can, indeed, conclude that the fever had killed him before he was pierced by such precious ritual weapons.”
“Then when we were at that wretched pool upriver,” Keera says, “you were adamant about our not touching any creatures, the dead along with the living, because we could not say just what affliction had killed which creature, particularly from a distance.”
“Well reasoned, Keera,” Caliphestros answers. “Would that I had been able to teach the Kafran priests and healers such logic. My quickly increased alarm was due to my detecting the presence of what you call
“But, surely,” Keera answers, “if one disease can ride upon the air released by the bodies undetected, others — such as the rose fever — would do the same.”
Caliphestros lets a deep breath escape him in frustration. “Indeed. It is an inconsistency that I have not been able to resolve, save to think that these pestilences, like other orders of beings, are not all equally clever. Why should one sickness remain dangerous after its host has died, while another does not? Most that call themselves healers — and none worse than the Kafran — cannot grasp the notion that this a question that
Although he is about to continue, Caliphestros, like Keera and Stasi, suddenly goes rigid and looks up, when a loud
Not even Stasi can locate the gap-toothed Bane at first, thanks to his ever-reliable trick of keeping his body smeared with the scents of various animals when in peril; and it is unsurprising, therefore, that neither Caliphestros nor Keera can spot him, either. Soon enough, however, Heldo-Bah’s ugly mouth and teeth — made somehow even more repellant by their being upside down — appear, along with the rest of his face, when he lets himself slowly hang by the knees from the lower limb of a nearby oak tree, its branches laden with leaves.
“Heldo-Bah!” Keera says. “So you
“And shall remember your unkind words on that subject,” Heldo-Bah replies. “The very thought that we would shirk our duty at a moment such as—”
“Get them into the trees, will you not, Heldo-Bah?” comes Veloc’s whispering voice, from further up; then, to his sister, he adds, “You are in greater danger than you know, Keera — I would suggest any one of this stand of trees for you, and that rather obliging beech, there, for Lord Caliphestros and his companion, who will find its lower limbs easily conquered.”
Heeding Veloc’s sense of urgency with no more than whispers and gestures, the old man is able to direct Stasi up and into the nearby beech, which does indeed have several stout lower limbs that grow at odd angles, offering easy pathways upward to the panther’s sharp claws and powerful legs. In only a few quiet moments, cat and rider find themselves in the higher reaches of the beech, at about the height of the three Bane, who are nestled into other, more upright trees of different varieties.
“At last,” Heldo-Bah whispers. “I did not think that either of you would ever allow us to get a word in, that you might get off the ground and into safety. Great gods, what vain chattering …”
Now that Keera is away from the rotting soldier, the scent of men becomes unmistakable, bringing several low growls from Stasi before Caliphestros quiets the panther. Yet it is not the simple scent of one tribe of men, but the complex aromas of at least two, and perhaps more. “Yes — I make it out, now,” Keera pronounces. “Our own warriors, somewhere close by. But something else, too — not the honest scent of true Broken soldiers, but the scented, well-preening aroma of — of—”
“Baster-kin’s Guard, sister,” Veloc says, directing his chin to the far side of the river. “They imagine themselves well hidden, but even I can pick up the scent and detect their movements. I imagine they await the arrival of some more powerful contingents of the actual Broken army — a fact that would be comforting, were our own men not also proving inexplicably noisy, behind us …”
“Behind us?” Caliphestros asks. “You mean to say that we …?”
“Yes, old sage,” Heldo-Bah replies scornfully. “You’ve hit upon it: we’ve stumbled between two quietly advancing forces, and sudden revelation of our presence may be enough to earn us either outright execution from the Guard, or several mistakenly aimed, poison-tipped arrows from advance groups of our own archers, who are no doubt very, very nervous just now. A devilish predicament …”
“But what can your commander be thinking?” Caliphestros says, somewhat stunned. “When stealth and the Wood have always been your people’s greatest protections?”
“I believe he intends some gesture,” Heldo-Bah replies, “to make the Tall reconsider all their usual thoughts about how our people fight.”
Veloc is far from satisfied with this explanation: “And yet it is inexplicable that Ashkatar should make so terrible an error — he is a great soldier.”
An idea strikes Veloc at that moment, and he turns to face south. “Linnet!” he suddenly says, not in a full shout, but in a whisper loud enough to be clearly detected. “Linnet-of-the-Line,
“Veloc, you imbecile, shut your mouth!” Heldo-Bah commands; and it is well that he does, for almost immediately, an arrow that they both recognize as having come from a sharp-eyed Bane archer’s short bow strikes the tree near the handsome tracker’s head. “Do you listen to nothing that I say? Do you imagine that Ashkatar’s men are acquainted with the
At the commotion, Stasi growls deeply, looking now to the woodland to the south and its small race of men, who suddenly seem a source of threat: unusual and confusing considerations, for her, an animal who has always respected the Bane enough to spare them from vengeful attacks, just as they have always respected her. Caliphestros whispers words of explanation and reassurance to his companion, stroking her magnificent white coat, but she will not take her brilliant green eyes from the forest, and the hairs of her mighty neck and shoulders she keeps high, as her tail begins to flick in a manner that would ordinarily mean death for some creature. Keera, observing her fellow foragers’ confusion and the discomfort of their new allies with equal alarm, decides that she alone can remove the threat of violence from this turn of events.
“The pair of you!” she whispers loud to her brother and Heldo-Bah, swinging down to a lower branch of her tree. “Make no move. And if you would please oblige me, Lord Caliphestros — I will bring some member of our own forces to our position without useless death. If I can …”
With a few more fast, agile movements, Keera reaches the forest floor, and disappears into the undergrowth of the thicker woodland. Her brother offers one quick protest, but Heldo-Bah has a tight hand over his mouth before he can do any more.
Their wait is a mercifully short one. There are few of Ashkatar’s officers and men who do not know Keera, at least by reputation; and she manages to find and return with a young pallin who relates that the Bane commander’s force has been on the watch for the return of Heldo-Bah’s foraging party — along with “unexpected guests,” Ashkatar has been careful to say, although he has vouchsafed no more to his men, in the hope that they would not serve their various watches in a state of panic, knowing that they were awaiting the coming, not only of the sorcerer Caliphestros, but of possible strange companions and familiars of that great and mighty entity. No warning of Ashkatar’s, of course, could truly have prepared his men; for when the young Bane warrior sees not only the old man but the enormous white panther, as well, descending from their beech tree, he begins to visibly shake.
Keera puts a reassuring hand to his shoulder. “Do not fear, Pallin,” she says. “They have proved true friends of our tribe — for many years, it turns out.”
“Yes,” the young man gasps, his dark features going quite white, “but you must understand, Tracker Keera.