Chapter 15
Yaret did not talk. She sat upright and steady in the saddle, gazing out at their surroundings, and yet he felt that she was different. Or maybe it was because his view of her was different. He had never thought that she could kill a man…
But she had, and now he did not seem to know her. He felt even less of a hero than he had before, more lost and smaller, as they rode across the dreary plain towards the looming flat-topped hill. The wind was bitterer than ever and after a while he took out the woolly cap which Lo had spun and knitted for him, and jammed it on his head. It wasn’t a hero’s hat but it didn’t matter what he looked like. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared.
At least the hat was warm, and it made him think of Lo. He might be able to tell her about this. No, he wouldn’t. Not the stoneman. But he could tell her that he wore her cap. He liked her best of all the girls, although she was the oldest. A woman really. But Lo was interested in him; she would want to hear his story.
So there had better be something that he could tell. The thought made Charo overcome his strange stiffness to urge Poda into a trot and then a canter. Yaret had to speed up behind him, and by the time they halted at the hill’s base she was breathless.
“My word, but Wulchak’s a bone-jolter,” she said. “You ride Poda well.” And then as they climbed the slope, winding between tall, forbidding conifers, she began to talk once more in the old familiar way, making jokes about the blind man’s ungainly horse and wondering how its owner, the trapper, was getting on, and what the children would be doing back home.
She also remarked on any signs of life they passed. Which were not many: a badger’s earth or two, claw scratches on the trees that might be bear; but nothing else until they found a distinct, much-trampled path, leading upwards through the trees.
“That looks like an old trail,” observed Charo, trying to speak as normally as Yaret did, “though there have been lots of stonemen here lately. Those footprints with the cross-roped soles: they’re the same as we saw earlier. But this path’s even cobbled in places – that must have been done years ago. Why would anybody bother laying cobbles? Who would come up here, to this star-forsaken place? What for?”
“For skeln, perhaps, whatever skeln may be.”
“A tree… Do you think it’s something like the Farwth?”
“I have no idea,” said Yaret, “nor why it might be so important.”
When they emerged from the mass of crowded firs onto bare rocky slopes and climbed wearily on foot, leading the horses to the flattened summit, they were none the wiser. Charo had thought that the nightmare lay behind him in the town, but it was here too. There was no escape from it – from the uncaring emptiness.
The sun sinking on their left gave the landscape a sour, bilious appearance. The land did not fall away again, but spread in a level, bleak expanse of sickly yellow grass blotched with purpled rock, to the distance where it changed to white. As white as bone, he thought, although he knew it must be snow. Behind the white plateau, far jagged peaks rose up like snarling teeth.
Then, not far away, he saw them: a twisted clump of old, bare tree-trunks.
“They look dead,” said Yaret softly. They left the horses and walked towards the clump. There were several gnarled and convoluted trunks, bigger than Charo had thought at first – and very dead indeed. They were mostly bare of bark, with not a single bud or even twig to be seen. True, it was still winter, but no dead leaves from last year or the years before lay piled beneath.
He pointed this out to Yaret.
“You’re right. Old age… or maybe they’ve been over-harvested,” she said.
“Harvested? What for?”
“For resin. Like myrrh or balsam. See the marks.” She pointed.
He had already noticed the multitude of cuts along each trunk. Some were more like gouges. He ran a finger over them. They looked old. Whatever bark remained was rotting; there was no sign of any resin leaking from the cuts.
“What would they use resin for?”
“Well, it’s usually for medicine. Or else in religious ceremonies, I think.”
“He – the stoneman – he said it was for their heads.”
“Yes. But not medicine. Not a painkiller. He called that athelid; it’s something different. So what is skeln? What do they want it for?”
“It’s for their stones,” said Charo, with sudden certainty. “If it’s for their heads, it’s something they put on the stones. Maybe they make a sort of varnish, or a coating.”
“The stones… Well. You could just be right, Charo. The stones on Brael’s head, close up, did look as if they might have had some sort of coating.”
Charo did not want to think about Brael. He said, “But it can’t be just for looks, surely. It must be really important or they wouldn’t bother coming all this way to search for it.”
“Those stonemen back at Obandiro,” she said thoughtfully, “digging out the stones from corpses’ heads…”
“Maybe they’re running short of it, whatever it is,” said Charo. “If there’s none left here, then maybe the only place they can get it is from dead bodies.”
Yaret nodded. “You’re right. Skeln must be something vital to them. I never told you in the tale about my travels, but when I was in Farwithiel the Farwth told us to look for the skeln. It wouldn’t or couldn’t give us any details. I had an idea it might be in a song by Madeo, so I hunted through my mental store of songs. But I never found it there, although I spent long enough thinking about it.”
Charo said, “I wonder if there’s any resin here that the stonemen missed.”
They both searched the lacerated trunks, feeling with their fingers, and then hunted around the base of the lifeless trees. They found nothing. Charo was about to give up when, a few yards away, a tiny lump on the ground like a dull brown teardrop caught his eye.
He picked it up and held it in his palm. Although it was the size of a piece of gravel, it was not stone: he could mark it with a fingernail. “Do you think that’s resin?”
“It could be. Keep it just in case.”
He put it carefully in his pocket. They knelt to scan the ground again, without seeing any more.
“I guess if there was any to find, the stonemen would have found it,” Charo said at last. He raised his head to gaze north across the wilderness towards the white horizon.
Then he frowned. There was something out there, small and dark against the snow – and it was moving.
“What’s that?” He stood up. It was coming towards them.
“I don’t know,” said Yaret, getting hurriedly to her feet and screwing up her eyes. “It’s…”
“Smoking.”
“Or steaming. It looks like…. Oh, stars, it must be a darkburn.”
“We have to get away,” said Charo, and they both began to run towards the horses. But he knew they could not ride them down from this summit – or even gallop away along its edge, for the ground was too uneven. Whichever way they went they would have to lead the horses. Slowly.
And all the while the blurred dark object was drawing closer.
“We can’t get down in time,” he said. Suddenly it was hard for him to breathe.
“Then better to meet it up here where it’s flat, and we can fight it.” Yaret drew her sword ringingly from its sheath on Wulchak’s saddle, and Charo did the same. “Leave the horses here. Move back towards the trees. Stay behind the skeln. We can hide there, perhaps.”
“It’ll burn the trees.”
“At least they’ll be a barrier. There’s no other place up here with any cover.”
But Charo knew the thing would burn straight through the trees, and then it would run them down and burn them too, burn them alive. He stared at the advancing darkburn. How could it move so fast? It had no legs that he could see. Its body seemed like a core of darkness enveloped in smoke.
And now he smelt it. The memories of that night rushed back at him. That night that had never ended, that had lasted ever since.
And now he felt it: the dread and desperation that he had tried so hard, so often, to forget. The horror. The nightmare was fully round him now, enveloping, encircling him, and he was trapped. Smothered by it. He could not move.
“I know,” said Yaret next to him. “Hold on to your sword. They can be killed.” She stepped in front of him, although from the way she gripped her sword in both hands he knew that it had become a difficulty.
He could barely keep hold of his own hilt: the blade had dropped and was resting on the ground. When he tried to raise it he could not. It might have weighed a ton. He wanted to just curl up in a ball and hide. The dread was overwhelming.
The darkburn was growing swiftly now, not big in size but huge in fear and heat. Already the air was warm, although it was twenty yards away or more on the far side of the dead gnarled trees. Fifteen yards. Ten.
And then it stopped. A shadow made solid but without features. He seemed to feel it studying them through the dead bare branches although it had no eyes. He could not move. After a second or two it veered away to his right and headed for the horses.
But even as they began to bolt and panic it veered away from them again, now seeming to spin. It rushed back towards him and Yaret as they cowered behind the trees, and stopped again ten yards away, a blur of darkness. Towards the horses. Swerved and stopped. Towards them: stopped, and then rushed to and fro as if it could not decide.
He stared through the dead branches at it, his sword still unmovable in his hand. He would have turned and run had he had the strength. But he seemed to have no strength at all.
The darkburn paused, heat radiating from its smoky shadow. Then, as if driven by some unseen force, it began to hurtle back the way that it had come, a small dark whirlwind made of terror. It was rushing north again, rapidly diminishing. The heat and fear receded, yet Charo still felt all his limbs trembling as he watched the plume of smoke rise up across the empty land. Soon the darkburn – tiny now – must have met the snow; for a great cloud of steam boiled up into the air and hid it from their sight.
He let out a long, shuddering breath.
“What happened? How did we drive it away?” he asked. His voice seemed to have disappeared along with the darkburn.
“It wasn’t us. It was the trees, I think, that did it,” murmured Yaret. She touched the nearest branch.
“The skeln. So they repel the darkburns,” Charo said. “But no, that doesn’t make sense – because it ran away from the horses too.”
“In Wulchak’s saddle-bag is one of the stones from the dead man by the Dondel Bridge.”
Charo thought about this. “So if the stones are coated with the resin, it’s to keep darkburns away. To control them. That’s why the stonemen need it.”
“And they need it badly,” Yaret said.
“But where did that darkburn come from? Do you think there are stonemen around as well?” He looked round wildly in sudden fear.
Yaret was gazing north. “Brael said he was looking for the burner,” she replied. “That must mean a darkburn. I’d guess one got loose and ran away, and he got lost trying to find it – and was left behind.”
“So it could have been running around up here for days. Weeks, maybe.”
“Yes. Until it detected us. And then it came straight for us.” She sounded meditative. “I wonder why?”
“They must be trained to hunt down humans,” Charo said.
“Perhaps. I suggest we leave now, in case it comes back. I know you have the piece of resin and I have the stone, but I don’t feel inclined to put them to the test again.”
Charo couldn’t wait to leave. But before they descended from the hill, Yaret paused on a high point to gaze south, studying the burnt trail left by the stonemen many days ago. It was clearly visible below, leading west as far as his eye could see.
“All right,” she said, nodding, and then turned to soothe Poda, who was nervy and restlessly stamping. “At least it didn’t get so close to her this time,” she said. “I think she’ll be all right. I’ll lead her down to start with; you lead Wulchak.” She handed him the bridle. Half-way down the slope she added, “I think you worked it out. The skeln is a darkburn repellent.”
They said nothing more until they were on the fringes of the burnt-out town. Then Charo spoke his thoughts.
“Even if the darkburn comes down off the hill to look for us, it won’t come near that dead stoneman. If we sleep inside the market tower we’ll be close enough to have protection from his stones. And I can leave my bit of resin with Poda to protect her too.”
“Good thinking,” Yaret said.
Back in the market square, she asked him to build the fire and prepare the supper while she checked the streets for any survivors. He did not expect her to find any, and he was right. When she returned they ate without speaking, listening to the wailing wind blow off the hill.
Charo did not think that he would sleep that night, with the dead stoneman so close and the call of the wind hunting through the empty town and the knowledge of the darkburn running wild and lost up on the snowy plateau. This was a place beyond normal human life. He wondered how long it would take before the wilderness reclaimed it: before the buildings tumbled down completely and the forests began a slow march into the streets.
He expected the nightmare to attack him as it had so many nights back in Obandiro. Once he had asked Elket if she had that dream too: the screams, the running in the streets, the roaring walls of fire. She had merely nodded, as if it was quite normal.
So he foresaw no respite now. But the shelter in the narrow market tower was the best they’d had all trip, and the shifting ash beneath his cloak felt like a feather bed after the hard ground. He’d no sooner finished his cheese and biscuit than he fell asleep. He had no dreams at all.
He awoke to find Yaret repacking saddle-bags.
“We’ll set off home as soon as you’re ready,” she said.
“I thought you wanted to follow the stonemen’s trail?”
But she shook her head. “I don’t think there’s much more to be gained from that. We’ve seen the trail heading west. We know they’re going towards Kelvha. We’ve done what we set out to. We found two cartloads of survivors even if there are no more here. And we’ve found the skeln, and gained some useful knowledge. That’s enough.”
He felt a huge gladness to be going home at last. As they crossed the market place, he glanced down from Poda’s saddle at the dead stoneman lying slumped against the wall. The stones were missing from his head. He’d only had the two – but now he had none, just two black holes.
He glanced at Yaret. “Did you…?”
“I thought they might be useful. We could use them to protect Obandiro,” said Yaret distantly. She seemed a stranger again as they rode out of town and headed south. But within a couple of miles she began to chat as normal, and he gradually relaxed.
“It’s been a tough journey, Charo,” she said suddenly. “Harder than I expected. I thought it would be easier. I wish I knew how the Riders of the Vonn did this.”
He was surprised. “I thought… you seemed to know what you were doing.”
“I assumed I would. I’ve travelled enough, but only through the summer months. Coming north in winter has taught me how difficult it is. To be honest I’m just making it up as I go along.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“Well. Thank you. But if the weather had turned bad we could have been in trouble. I probably shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said.
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you came.”
Charo felt warmed by that smile. And something that had been running in the background of his head came to the forefront now.
“I know where the skeln is!” he exclaimed.
“Whatever do you mean?”
In answer, he began to sing.
“Above the snow the skellen tree,
Beneath the snow lie you and me,
And all around and looking in
The gentle faces of the lin…”
Yaret stared at him. “The skellen tree! That’s from…”
“The Last Guard.”
“Yes. I never understood that song. I always thought it was a skellentry, all one strange word. I didn’t know it was an actual tree. I had no idea what the song meant. Still don’t, if it comes to that.”
“I don’t see any gentle faces of the lin,” said Charo, glancing around.
She laughed. “Don’t worry, we will. Or I will, anyway. Admittedly I haven’t seen any up here, but further south I expect they’ll be there again.”
“Do they have gentle faces?”
“I don’t know. They’re never visible for long enough. They don’t seem ill-disposed, at least.”
“Tell me when you next see one.”
“It’s always too late,” said Yaret wryly. “But that’s the song about the skeln all right. Well done.”
She began to sing it softly as they rode along. Charo glanced backwards at the sullen hills, which were now receding rapidly. He was going home: not to a nightmare, although Obandiro had seemed like one for a while; but to the place where his friends waited.
Maybe the trip hadn’t gone so badly in the end. As Yaret said, they’d gained some useful knowledge: and he had been the one who worked it out. They’d confronted an attacking darkburn, and had survived unscathed. Plenty to tell Lo there, after all.