Chapter-1-3

⁠—⁠—⁠— III ⁠—⁠—⁠—

“Salai!” Guin shouted, but the darkness swallowed his cry.

“Salai!”

“Riyaad!”

Guin hauled on the rope with a mad strength. At first it resisted, like a fishing line pulled taut by a heavy catch, then suddenly it grew light and came as quickly as he could pull. Drawing in its end, he scrutinized it closely, and then tossed it down behind him in disgust—the rope had caught on some rock along the way and had frayed until it snapped.

“Riyaad!”

Guin turned around to see the small, worried faces of the Raku. He shook his head.

“What happened, Guin? Did he make it?” demanded Istavan as he hurried near.

“He did not,” Guin said solemnly, in words the Sem could not understand.

The Crimson Mercenary tried in vain to peer through the murk that had settled over the valley. “The poor monkey…”

“It will not take long. Thankfully, the yidoh are very efficient at what they do,” Guin muttered. Then, looking up with a jerk, he motioned violently for Istavan and the Raku to retreat. “Stay back—come no closer! They have noticed us!”

Istavan did not have to be told twice. Swiftly he ran back to the safety of the bend in the canyon. Behind him, the white mass that filled the valley was rising in a storm of activity. It seemed as though the entire colony of yidoh had sensed the feast that their brothers on the far edge had received, and now the rest of them were pulsing and stretching to see if there were tasty morsels within reach. Some of them had started in the direction of Guin and the others. It was a sickening sight.

“Keep your distance,” growled Guin, herding the Raku farther back along the canyon like a sheepdog directing a reluctant flock.

“Riyaad!” It was Siba, making his way through the retreating Raku. In his hands he held a length of rope and a torch. “I will go next.”

“Salai’s sacrifice has told us one thing,” Guin said grimly. “We now know how far it is to the other side of the valley. You have a little less than a tad to go—about fifty motad past the curve, no more. Pace yourself accordingly.” He did not bother to add empty words of encouragement to that.

“I will succeed,” Siba declared fiercely. The death of his comrade had not quenched the brave wildling’s spirit. Then, perhaps to cheer the rest of the Raku, he observed, “I am stronger than Salai was.”

“Have you mastered the pole-legs?”

“Easier than taunting a sand leech, Riyaad.”

Siba would have set out immediately, but Guin made him wait until he had double-checked the fastenings on his crystal stilts and adjusted the hang of the rope at his waist. Taking the loose end of the rope, he tied on to it what remained of the coil that had linked him to Salai.

“Alphetto, your protection,” intoned Siba. Then he was off into the valley.

The remaining Raku huddled close behind Guin as they watched their companion leave. They were nervous. They understood the importance of this second attempt, and Siba was one of their most respected warriors. The death of Salai was fresh on all their minds. It seemed that the yidoh, too, remembered, for while they had left Salai’s stilts largely unmolested, they now wrapped their pseudopods around Siba’s at his every step, searching for anything edible. Siba was forced to lift up his crystal pole-legs quicker than he would have liked. Many times he nearly stumbled, sending a gasp up from the watching Raku, only catching his balance at the last moment.

But Siba was agile, and he was progressing away from them, slowly but surely, to the other side of the valley. Guin looked upwards and away from Siba once, as though to supplicate the heavens for help. He saw faint white wisps of angel hair falling from a starless, charcoal sky.

“Hey, Guin,” Istavan came up to him and whispered, “what you got planned if this one doesn’t make it?”

“I’ll know then.”

“Come on, I know you better than that. I know you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Maybe,” Guin allowed, “but Siba will not fail.”

“How do you know? Have you now the spirit-sight like little Rinda?”

Guin did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the torch atop Siba’s right-hand stilt. “If he can just make it past there…” Guin muttered, half to himself, “and if we can follow… then we—and the Sem—will have an edge. It is already dark, yet with our Raku guides, we can move with relative ease, while the Mongauli’s forays will be greatly hindered. They will have to close ranks and set watch against the dangers of the night, and wait for the morning to come before they march on. Our tracks will be even harder to follow after a night of the hard winds blowing down from the Ashgarns… and they do not know the exact location of the Raku village. Even if they do succeed in following us, with any luck the yidoh will still be here. What better guard to set at our gates than... this?”

“Let’s hope it’s not so good a guard that it keeps us from getting through, eh? Speaking of which, I bloody well hope we get across soon. These jellies may be hungry, but so am I!”

Guin did not bother answering. Swiveling his leopard head, he scanned the valley. Siba was already lost to their sight. Thanks to the extra rope that Guin had added, the coil in his hand was not running as thin this time. Still, a great deal of rope was now stretched out into the pale luminescent darkness above the yidoh.

“If Siba fails, we will have to return to where we entered these hills.” Guin said this in a near whisper so the Raku would not hear him. Though they could not speak the human tongue, they would be alert to his tone, and he could not let them sense his uncertainty.

“But what about the Mongauli?”

“It will take time and it will not be easy, but if we can slip back under the cover of night, there’s hope that we’ll be able to take the Mongauli by surprise, even if they’ve set an ambush. We can cut through, and then go around the mountains. It’s a long way to the village, but it may be the only way. At any rate, none of the other Raku have the strength to cross this valley—Siba is our last chance.”

“Guin! Have you got a yidoh for a brain? Have you forgotten how many thousands of troops are out there?”

Guin suddenly sprang to his feet.

“What?” Istavan said, taking back a step.

Without answering him, the leopard warrior ran straight up to the very edge of the yidoh. His voice high and strained, he called out: “Siba!”

There was a terrible moment’s silence. Then a cheerful cry answered him, “Riyaad!”

“You’ve done it, Siba! Are you all right?”

“I am fine, Riyaad! I have crossed the valley!”

“Siba! Siba! You did it!” roared Guin, laughing as he turned to tell the other Raku.

But there was little time to celebrate. Moving quickly, Guin gave directions for the next stage of his plan. He knew that Siba was already following his instructions on the other side: fastening the rope to the highest point which he could find and checking to make sure that it would not come loose no matter how hard it was pulled.

On his side of the valley, Guin climbed to an outcropping of rock he had noticed earlier that jutted out high above the path. There, taking care not to snap the rope with his great strength, he fixed it tightly around an upthrust horn of stone.

The rope now hung in the air, suspended at both ends and crossing the valley diagonally, forming a modest bridge to the other side. Guin faced the far end of the valley and called to Siba. Siba responded with a cry, and Guin pulled on the rope a few times to test its strength.

He nodded, and muttered, “It will do.” Then he returned to where the remainder of the Raku waited to hear what plan their resourceful Riyaad had devised to save them. He looked around at the faces of the Sem, and said to them, “Thanks to Siba, who risked his life for us all, a piece of rope spans the valley right now.” Then he asked, in a tone that was almost harsh, “Do you have the courage to cross the rope-bridge?”

“Yes, Riyaad!” the Raku called out as one.

“Wait now,” Guin raised his hand. “This is no river crossing or mountain climbing. The valley is wide, and you must cross the whole distance with your hands and your feet on that rope. Fail, and you will meet the same fate as Salai.”

The Raku were silent. Yet, one by one, they raised their hands to the sky to say they were not afraid of the fate the gods had chosen for them. They were ready.

Guin looked them over and nodded. “Then the lightest of you, with confidence in the strength of your arms, should go first.” Giving this order, he stepped back.

The Raku looked at one another, sizing up their companions, until one of the smallest of their number clambered up the rocks and took the rope in his hands. He moved out onto the rope until he was hanging by his hands and feet like a jungle sloth. Then, with remarkable speed, he began to wiggle along the rope, bending and stretching like a tree-worm.

Istavan shivered and cursed, “I’m not so sure about these plans of yours, leopard-head. The yidoh are going to have a feast tonight. Delivered to them, no less! How many of us do you think can make it across on that poor excuse for a bridge?”

“You are forgetting,” said Guin, checking the knots in the rope for any loosening or fraying against the rock, “that our friends are Sem. Is it not you, Crimson Mercenary, who calls them ‘monkeys’? Their arms are as strong as their legs, and they have less than half our weight to support. Crossing on this rope is a challenge for them, but not a ridiculous one.”

“For them, sure, but in the name of their smelly monkey-god, what about us?” Though he took a step toward Guin as he said this, his tone was not really accusatory. “Well,” he continued, not waiting for an answer, “I’m sure you’ve got some plan even if we can’t make it across on that rope, you being you and all. By the hundred squinting eyeballs of Jarn, you are a tough one to beat, Guin. Here I was thinking we were bound to go on a fruitless walk through the wilds of Nospherus, and you came up with that crazy stilts idea. And it even worked!”

Guin was about to reply, but instead reached out a hand to stop the next Raku from climbing onto the rope. “Let the heavier ones go now—first, the next heaviest after Siba.”

Already, six of the smaller Sem had made it to the other side of the valley. Crossing on a rope suited them far better than walking on stilts, and they were travelling more swiftly than Istavan had thought possible. Yet already, one of the Sem had slipped and fallen. A surging crest of the pale jelly that was the yidoh had enveloped him as his companions watched; he had become a featureless lump of flesh in mere moments and was nowhere to be seen in the slime.

“We have to send some of the heavier ones across now, while the rope is still strong,” Guin explained to Istavan. “Should it begin to fray, the lighter the load, the better.”

“Why not strengthen the bridge with what’s left of the bow-strings?” the mercenary offered.

“I’ve considered it,” Guin replied, tilting his head thoughtfully, “but we’d not have enough for—ah, it is ready!”

With an air of importance, several Raku who had been busily making something came up to the outcropping.

“Good, cross now, and hurry,” he told them. Most of the forty Sem had gone already. “How many have fallen? Six? That’s on the lower end of what was to be expected.” He shook his head and watched the last Sem head out over the sea of yidoh one by one.

“How holds the rope?” Guin called out.

“It is fraying halfway across, where it rubs on a rock, Riyaad! Elsewhere it is strong.”

“The fraying, is it bad?”

“It will hold!”

“Okay,” said Istavan, irritated by the chittering, none of which was comprehensible to him. “So the monkeys are doing fine, great. What about us? You’re not going to ask me to wiggle along on this thing, are you?”

“I think we can do better than that.” Guin pointed at the last two Raku, who had just climbed onto the rope. They had a cord attached to their waists. As they began to make their way across, the cord grew taut and began to lift up something that had lain on the ground below the outcropping.

It was a net, quickly and simply made.

“What in the world…” let out Istavan.

“You will ride on that. We are too heavy to cross the valley as the Sem did, but with the help of this net—which the Raku will pull from the other end—we should be able to make it. Of course, we’ll use our own hands and legs too, on the rope.”

Istavan peered at the wildlings’ handiwork. The Raku had done a fine make-shift job. The net hung evenly like a merchant’s cargo bag, and at the top formed a sliding loop on the rope. Through it ran the cords that were tied to the waists of the last two Raku, who were briskly making their way across the valley. From the other side they would be able to pull the net towards them.

The tall mercenary of Valachia, deserter from the Marches patrol, stood for a while without saying anything. Glaring skeptically at the contraption, he reached out a hand and gave it a firm tug. “You’re telling me to hang above the yidoh on this thing? By the sulfurous fiery breath of Doal! Back when I was a pirate on the Lentsea, I used nets like these to transport goods, even a few servant girls, between ships. No time to put up a proper gangplank when there’s fighting going on, you see.” He pursed his lips, and then elaborated, “Sugar bags, casks of wine, gold dust in leather pouches, clothes. The fellows who’ve boarded the ship stuff it all into a basket and pull on the rope to say it’s ready, their mates haul it over, and that’s all there is to it! By the Godwyrm Dridon, caretaker of the sea and the pirates who ride her, I never thought I’d see the self-same piece of wisdom up here in the hills of Nospherus—and with me as the loot! And this time, instead of the gentle blue and wine-mild sea-mother below me, I get an ocean of squirming slime that’ll eat me for dinner if I fall in.” He scowled and was silent for a moment. Then he waved his hand and concluded sulkily, “Fine, fine, I’ll get in the damned thing. It better work!”

Guin let out a howl of laughter, despite the fix they were in.

Istavan was the “Spellsword,” the “Crimson Mercenary,” barely turned twenty but wise beyond his years in the ways of the world and the trials of battle. At heart, nonetheless, he was just a mischievous youth whose spirit still frolicked on the sun-drenched shores of his natal Valachia. Now and then he made Guin laugh hard, but it was not a mean-spirited or condescending laugh. They were bursts of pure mirth.

Istavan shot a hostile glance at the laughing leopard-headed warrior. “Still,” he said, sounding more optimistic, “I know for a fact that there’s not a chance in the world I’ll meet my end at the hands—or whatever they are—of these yidoh. When I came into this world, a gem in my hand, the fortune-teller said I’d one day be king. So sure of it she was that she named me after a great king of old, and I’m no king yet. Until I do get my crown, it means, I need not fear death! No stinking valley of jellyfish can take me to the underworld yet! Yup, yessir, I’ll get on the net, I’ll be the booty if you insist!” And with this contorted piece of logic, he clambered up the rock nimbly toward the net.

“Wait,” said Guin, stopping him.

“What now?”

“Take off that armor. The Raku said that the rope was fraying. You’ll want to be as light as possible.”

The mercenary shot Guin a look like a maiden who had been asked to do something most improper. But without a word, he began undoing the straps of the black Gohran armor. One by one, he threw the chestplate, the greaves, and the gauntlets down onto the hard ground, until his slender form was clothed only in his leather boots, his short trousers, and the padded undershirt that had fit close under the armor.

“I can keep my sword, can’t I? Without it I’d feel more naked than if I’d taken off all my clothes,” muttered Istavan. Glowering, he crawled into the makeshift basket, where he looked like some giant fish caught in a fisherman’s net. “I don’t know if it’s Mos, Cirenos, or Doal himself, but pray to your god for me, leopard-head.” With this, he grabbed onto the cord and gave it a good tug.

This was the signal. In a moment, the rope, which had sagged under Istavan’s weight, pulled taut. With the combined strength of the Sem tugging on the cord and Istavan pulling hand over hand on the rope as he sat in the basket, the hastily constructed transport began to move out across the valley with surprising speed.

“Whoa! Watch it! Yipes!” yelled the mercenary with every sway and lurch. His eyes bulged wide as he looked at the swirling, slimy creatures that writhed not a man’s height below him. Istavan was considerably lighter than Guin, but still, he was at least twice as heavy as the largest of the Sem, and the makeshift bridge had already held many Raku. And dropped a few, the mercenary thought glumly. If it sagged any more than it had already, his feet would hit the yidoh, which were stretching yearningly toward him!

“Uggh,” groaned Istavan. “By Irana’s seven tails, I hope this is a first and last time. Please, you yidoh just rub me the wrong way!” He reflexively drew up his legs until he had nearly curled himself into a ball.

The yidoh had begun to move again, a disturbing ebb and flow. Salai, who had sacrificed himself, and the six Raku who had fallen from the rope had been consumed entirely by now, but that had done little to sate the eternal hunger of the yidoh. If anything, the meal of Sem had made the gruesome creatures hungrier, and they lurched and lashed out with bulbous pseudopods. They were more active than Istavan had seen them all night, surging and heaving in deadly waves.

As a single mass they pulsed back and forth across the valley, reaching up the rocky sidewalls with furious violence, driven by their blind hunger. The entire mass was sensing for shifts in temperature and sent out pseudopods of yidoh to test whether the things they crashed against were inedible rocks and trees or warm, living food.

Istavan’s sun-tanned face twisted in a grimace of disgust. The net in which he sat, which had moved so quickly at first, now seemed to advance with appalling slowness, and the mercenary began to despair of ever reaching the end of the fearful journey. Tired of looking down at the sea of yidoh, he peered back up at the rope against the dark sky—and his wearied face went pale.

“Gah! The rope, it’s fraying!” Istavan gave a terrified howl. “H-Help! Help me gods, I’m going to fall!” The mercenary’s obsidian eyes opened wide as he stared at his only lifeline, the single rope that held him above the valley.

He had only made it two-thirds of the way, still a considerable distance from the safety of the far side where the Raku stood waiting for him. The basket shuddered, and he looked up again. Before his eyes, the makeshift rope was fraying, the wound cords splaying faster and faster.

And then the rope broke.