During the fighting he had been helping Bel as best he could. At one point he had whispered in the mind of a bow that a hugger falling towards Bel wanted to kill her. Consequently she had shot at it instead of the hugger that was above her, to her detriment. He’d sent thoughts to the huggers too, helping them perceive other soldiers as bigger threats than Bel. These efforts were tiring, but the huggers were simple-minded creatures, easier to influence than intelligent beings.
Now, however, Bel was surrounded, and against such numbers Iassia’s influence meant little. Bel was an impressive warrior, cutting bodies from the air and cracking crawling backs under powerful feet, but Iassia knew there were simply too many. In a panic, the weaver cast around for the mind of Munpo, and found him not far off. The man was standing with the remaining troop, their progress halted at a wall of snapping mouths. Frantically Iassia whispered to him that more soldiers were available at Bel’s location, that if they could break through they would gain the upper hand. The troop leader called out to those remaining to follow him, and they fought towards Bel.
Bel felt almost meditative. His movements had slipped into the pattern of the fight and he whirled like a leaf in a howling wind. Stepping this way and that, his sword was a streaking flash of light about him, carving huggers free of their lives.
‘Where are the others?’ shouted Munpo, as he and those with him fought their way into the knee-high ferns.
‘All dead!’ Bel shouted back.
Munpo had seven with him, including Keit and M’Meska. The Saurian hung back from the main fight, sending off arrow after arrow in search of shrieks.
‘How many?’ called Keit.
‘Must be over sixty adults!’ said Munpo. ‘Biggest nest I’ve ever seen!’
He jabbed a hugger through its shrieking mouth. Claws gouged at his side and he cursed, kneeing away another creature. Two of the remaining soldiers screamed and fell.
Bel found that he couldn’t remain in a single place, so couldn’t stay with his companions. This was a dance with death, and to survive it he had to lead. Time seemed to slow as he felled beast after beast, hacking paths through the brown-green mass. He heard a cry as another wave of monsters broke against his companions. A hugger dropped lightly from a tree onto Keit’s back and slashed his throat open with its claws. Bel bellowed, limbs and lives flying away from him, a dervish of destruction. A fierce joy burned in his breast. He could see the pattern of the fight, knew the steps he needed to tread. Sword there, fist here, boot now, elbow there … on and on until he did not know how much time passed, nor did he care.
Finally he swung at a hissing beast only to see it turn and scamper away. He leaped at another, but it was gone already, ferns quivering in its wake. His head snapped feverishly from side to side. The only huggers left were dead or in pieces. He rubbed the sweat from his eyes. The fight was over.
He tasted something foul and realised there was hugger blood in his mouth. It dribbled down his face and coated his clothes. As soon as he became aware of it, the smell was repulsive. He bent over and retched.
Someone groaned, and he staggered to where his comrades had made their stand. He found them all fallen, and sank to his knees with exhaustion. ‘Who is alive here?’ he asked. Keit did not speak, the hole in his neck being answer enough. Of the others, only Munpo opened his eyes. The old warrior tried to sit up, but grunted in pain and slumped back against the tree. Bel reached out to help him.
‘Don’t move me,’ said the troop leader.
For Bel, reality began to sink in. His friends were dead, his leader dying, and he had killed like one born to do so. He’d been consumed by the spirit of battle; meanwhile, his companions had been destroyed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.
‘Not your fault,’ managed Munpo thickly. ‘Blade Bel?’
‘Yes?’
‘Roll me some brittleleaf. In my top pocket.’
Bel nodded, and removed the pouch. With shaking fingers, he rolled brittleleaf into a paper. It was difficult because blood had made his fingers sticky.
‘I thought the hunting party was the nest guard,’ said Munpo, smiling bitterly.
‘I know, sir.’
‘No wonder the big fellow was with them, with this many mouths to feed. Must have been a big fire.’ He sighed deeply. ‘What did I tell you, Bel – never underestimate your opponent. What a fool I am, scattering my troop to pursue one hugger, like silly children chasing …’
But whatever Munpo’s children chased, Bel never knew.
He put the brittleleaf end in Munpo’s mouth.
From the trees above came a mewling and Bel forced his eyes upwards. Over the lip of one of the nests poked the hairy faces of hugger kittens, calling for their parents. He blinked slowly and reached for his crossbow. Through clouded eyes he slid a bolt into it, but the pounding in his head became overpowering and he lost track of his target. Dropping the crossbow, he pitched onto his side.
The only other thing he remembered that day was the forest floor moving beneath him, a scaly tail swinging back and forth across it.
Twenty-one
The Deep Dark
The eel wound lazily through the murky water, pale grey with a long snout and eyes like copper coins. From his wide mouth jutted fangs at angles as crazy as the pillars of rock that protruded from the ocean floor. His skin was mottled and tough, scarred in many places. Sometimes old pains flared up and the eel ground his fangs in frustration, but he always continued to hunt. To stop and wait for wounds to heal was to invite starvation, or other predators. Lately the pain had become more general, and persistent. The eel had raised many broods, eaten many fish, fought many fights. When he saw baby eels swimming frantically along the ocean bed, he knew that he must have been small like that once. He did not eat the young eels, as he might once have, but instead used their fear to steer them into safer waters.
His senses were duller than they used to be, making it harder to search out prey. Stealing surreptitiously towards a school of fish, he burst from between rocks at speed, but at the pivotal moment his body failed him. Once the cramping stopped and he could swim again, he settled for an algal colony on a rock tower, swallowing it in hope of energy. Flesh was what he really needed.
He happened upon an eel nest amongst a cluster of rocks. Young eels darted into the safety of crevices as he approached, and a lone female flashed out. As the old eel drifted closer in the current, she turned her head from side to side, showing him her fangs. He veered wide, knowing she wouldn’t attack unless he came closer. He saw that she was young, but not healthy. Her stomach was sunken and she had a smattering of white discoloration. Where was her mate? Was he dead? She would have trouble providing for so many babies on her own.
As he drifted away, the female stretched out to full length and rippled her body towards him. The old eel wound to a stop, curious. Her mate must indeed be dead, for only brooding females without a partner would seek to entice another into the nest. Taking a replacement mate could be a risky business.
Salt.
The old eel was barely able to care for himself, let alone a brood of young. He sensed, though, that the mother was weak and desperate. If she didn’t hunt soon she would die, and then all her young would die too. Instinct turned him back towards her and he began to swim against the current. The effort seemed more taxing than it ever had before. The female regarded him warily as he approached.
The taste of salt on his lips. The cold breeze through his hair.
The eel realised he was floating off course and tried to correct himself – but his body wasn’t responding any more. He lost momentum, rolling in the current to drift towards the bottom. A cloud of sediment rose as he hit, a soft impact that he did not feel. He lay still as his heart slowed, his breaths coming further apart, until his gills stopped moving altogether.