Myint jabbed with her spear none too gently, urging the young woman onward. Jak, wolfing down the last of his morning meal of rice and boiled plants, came to meet her. He was brushing his hands free of the sticky grains. ‘You surprised me once before, witch,’ he said. ‘But not again. Try anything and you’ll get run through before you can raise your spells. Understand?’
Though her hair was a dirty nest of twigs, her face smudged with dirt, and her skirts sodden and muddy, the young woman still managed to maintain her poise. The answering nod she bestowed upon the bandit was a sneer.
Pon-lor winced, for he knew this was precisely the wrong approach to take with Kenjak Ashevajak. The young man raised his hand to strike her across the face but the grating of stone and the hiss of steel on wood halted him. All eyes turned to the yakshaka; it had taken a step and half drawn its sword.
Jak slowly lowered his hand. ‘For now, bitch,’ he murmured, low. ‘For now.’
Throughout, the young woman hadn’t flinched, and Pon-lor felt a grudging admiration. He also saw now that the woman had adopted this attitude of scornful superiority precisely because it so enraged the bandit — just as he wielded it as well.
Jak turned to the camp where everyone stood or crouched, motionless, watching. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What are you all standing around for? You lazy useless idiots!’ He swung a kick at Thet-mun. ‘Let’s get going!’
Through the last preparations of breaking camp, Pon-lor wondered which course he ought to pursue. Should he slay the lot of them? They were now leading him in entirely the wrong direction. Yet without their guidance he would be utterly lost in this dense green abyss. Coercion or bribery then. He would leave one alive and promise him or her a rich reward for guiding him back — or he would torture the outlaw into cooperation. So, which one?
A point jabbed him in the back and he flinched into motion while glaring over his shoulder. It was a grinning Thet-mun, his livid facial pocks and pimples even worse now, and his hair a matted glistening ropy cascade.
Pon-lor realized that he had his man. They marched through the thick undergrowth, shouldering aside hanging lianas dense with clinging blossoms and pushing through stands of razor-edged grasses. After the line of march had strung everyone out, Pon-lor cleared his throat and murmured, low, ‘That fool Jak treats you like a dog.’
The point jabbed him. ‘Quiet, you.’
‘You deserve better — you’re the best scout here. Where would they be without you?’
He was jabbed again. ‘ ’Strue,’ the youth snarled. ‘But Jak … He has the plans.’
‘You could too-’
‘Don’t listen to that one,’ a girl cut in from behind.
Pon-lor peered back over his shoulder. The witch paced behind Thet-mun. Myint walked behind her, laughing silently, spear in hand. ‘You should kill him right now,’ the witch continued. ‘His kind mean to bring the Visitor down upon us and wipe all of us from the face of the earth.’
Pon-lor stared back at the young peasant woman. Her answering gaze remained steady and defiant. ‘That’s nonsense. The ruling Circle of Masters would never do such a thing.’
‘How do you know this?’
Pon-lor drew breath to answer, clamped his mouth shut. Because … there are rumours … they’d tried it before. And it had been a disaster.
In the face of his silence Myint laughed her hyena scorn. She set her spearhead alongside the woman’s neck. ‘Speak again and it’ll be gags for both of you.’
Pon-lor turned away. Damn the witch. By the teachings of the ancients, I am now tired of this. I have quite demonstrated my denial of the flesh, my indifferent endurance of arduous conditions. The Masters cannot fault my assiduousness here! At the next stop, when everyone’s gathered together, I’ll put an end to it.
Towards midday the troop gathered for a break in the march. The sun stabbed down in a punishing blinding glare through gaps in the high canopy. The bird whistles and distant animal hoots and roars had died down with the heat of noon. The ground here was covered by an overlay of twisting knotted roots that supported the surrounding massive trunks, which were bulwarked by enormously wide bases, as large as buildings. Pon-lor made a show of throwing himself down to sit hunched. He drew in great shuddering breaths as if he were utterly spent.
Another of the troop guarded him now, a quiet oldster with a hard cold gaze. Probably a runaway petty criminal. Or maybe not. He mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating these outcasts again. Perhaps the man was a multiple murderer. Or a violent rapist. There was no way to know. He wasn’t certain of his name — not that it mattered. Weenas, perhaps. Something like that.
He turned his head to glance sideways up at the man. ‘Hey … you.’
The eyes snapped to his, then narrowed, calculating. Without a change of his indifferent expression he jabbed the glinting point of his spearhead into Pon-lor’s shoulder. The point withdrew smeared a bright crimson. Pon-lor clamped down on the pain and kept his face flat, determined to match the man’s impassiveness. The oldster, Weeras, studied the wound and licked his lips, smiling.
Sadist. Even worse than I’d imagined. The throat for this one, I think. So vital, that one slim locale. So much going on in such a narrow passage.
Pon-lor pitched his voice low: ‘How can you breathe with …’ then he trailed off as he realized something.
The old man’s face wrinkled up in annoyance. ‘What?’
Pon-lor searched the surrounding jungle. It was silent. The constant hum and susurration of insects had fallen away. No birds called from the canopy. Casting his awareness wide he now detected why: they were surrounded. The yakshaka, he noted, had turned its helmed head to stare off into the dense leaves as if at nothing. He stood, called out, ‘Jak!’
‘Shut the abyss up!’ Weeras snarled, and thrust at him.
He easily sidestepped the point and kicked the old man down. ‘Where are your scouts?’ he called to Jak who now stared, frozen, a handful of rice at his mouth.
Thet-mun, next to the bandit leader, was not so slow to understand. He threw himself flat, disappearing immediately between the thick snaking roots everyone sat upon.
I chose well in that one, Pon-lor congratulated himself.
A hissing like bees sounded all round. Leaves were flicked, then a storm of arrows punished the gathered bandits. Complete chaos engulfed the troop. Everyone scattered. Some even dropped their weapons to run, terrified.
‘Cannibals!’ someone screeched.
Cannibals? Pon-lor wondered, quite astonished. He shifted to put his back to one of the immense tree trunks. He edged his head aside as something darted towards him. A slim arrow slammed into the thick spongy bark next to his head. Paint and feathers decorated the deadly graceful object and he understood. Ah, these villagers are from the border region. They grew up hearing the stories of the natives of Himatan. Ardata’s Children, call them what you will. Cannibals, head-hunters. Of course such a reputation for ferocity serves these locals well — it keeps everyone away, doesn’t it?
A sudden wash of enormous power, like a huge wave, thrust him back into the tree. The witch was raising her aura. And what strength! He stared, stunned by the depth of it. How came she by such might? She screamed however, then, and her aura flickered, snapping away just as it burgeoned to life. She clutched her leg where an arrow now pierced her thigh.
Jak and Myint had pulled together a group and this knot now charged the jungle, probably meaning to break through the encirclement. Showing surprising speed, the yakshaka scooped up the witch and stormed off in the opposite direction, crashing through the undergrowth like an enraged elephant.