the stony ground and down into the embrace of the stinging thorns in the depression.
The tiny-leafed bushes held a space above the ground in which few branches ventured. Pushing forward just under the outer ring of bushes, not knowing what he was doing, Banjee was brought up short by a set of four nervous, stomping legs. One of the deer, a large male, had tangled its reins in the thorny limbs.
In too much pain to care if he was seen or not, Banjee pulled himself up on his good leg next to the deer and tried to calm it. It was possibly the most difficult thing he'd ever done, to climb on the tied animal, but Banjee managed to mount a stone so he could get his good leg over. Once up, he slashed the tangled ends of the reins with his sword, releasing the terrified deer into the night as he bounced in agony and clung to its back.
Much later, after finally coaxing the deer into a northern track, Banjee pulled his mind into a trance that would bury the pain. He expected the Traders to pick up his tracks in the morning, especially since he was losing blood. He would worry about that then.
The deer stumbled, jarring Banjee from the stupor that had enfolded him. This was the second night since the battle; he'd passed the day in fevered heat after tying the deer to a thorn bush. The buck could at least nibble the tiny leaves. Banjee had had nothing.
He'd been with his wife, Marta, could almost touch her, and then the dream faded, to be replaced by the searing pain and an aching, dusty thirst. The deer stumbled again, but this time it stopped and swayed. Alarmed further from his feverish lethargy, Banjee attempted to slide from the deer's back onto his left leg. Before his foot hit the ground, the exhausted animal collapsed, front knees sagging and tumbling its rider forward onto the ground. Banjee hit and rolled, agony tearing at him from the leg that imprisoned the arrow. As darkness closed in around him, his sole ray of thought was the realization that the grass under him was not lifeless and withered.
Some time later, Banjee was awakened by Angel's nudges and strident screeches. The bird pecked at him insistently, with no malice, as it hopped from his chest to the ground and back. "Brawwk!" the bird let him know as his eyes slitted open. The first suggestion of daylight framed the bird, and Banjee stared at Angel with woozy confusion.
Then the throbbing pain returned, and with it the thirst. He could barely lift his head, but he took in his surroundings. Surprisingly, the deer must have survived; it was no longer where it had fallen. And it had abandoned him just inside the outskirts of the jagged foothill region below Aldar's escarpment. Not so many miles, but he may as well have still been in Tibernia.
Banjee could no longer stifle his groans. His thigh was swollen now, engorged and reddened around the arrow, and his broken arm ached. If he could only find water - what a mercy that would be. Feverish, he considered his options. He wasn't dead yet, and he'd no intention of letting the Traders find him before he was. Groaning as he forced himself to sit, he observed the rugged terrain in the growing light. "Angel. I got to get up in those bushes. Make sure I get there." Then he began hauling his weakened body over the tumbled rough rocks toward the cluster of green bushes that braced the sheer cliff of the nearest spire.
He stopped twice, both times feeling even weaker when Angel finally wakened him. His clouded mind worked poorly. Briefly he thought of sending Angel for help, but when he woke again he realized he was out of time. When he’d finally made it to the cliff face and shoved his way into the open space behind the bushes, he knew he'd go no further. His companion followed him, bobbing his black head and chuckling in an almost continuous stream of raspy sounds, unhappy at the small space next to the cliff face and even less happy with Banjee.
Banjee's mind was wreathed in wool, but he pulled himself back, focusing on his friend. "Angel, old fellow, we've run our last journey." Banjee's words caught in the dry dust of his throat and he found he couldn't swallow. "You're on your own now," he croaked. Desperately, he wished for a scrap of paper and a pencil. Angel could surely do one last thing for him.
The bird dipped its head in front of his face where he sprawled in the gravel. Banjee reached out to touch him, running a tremulous finger over the smooth feathers of Angel's breast. Angel did not normally care to be stroked, and the caravan leader let his hand drop when the bird squawked loudly. As his hand fell away, Banjee caught sight of the emblem that decorated his filthy tunic sleeve. Marta, he thought. Then no, he realized sadly, he could only send one message. It must be to Baracan.
It would have been easier had his good arm not been encased in the sleeve, but nevertheless, Banjee managed to get the tunic sleeve in his mouth where he tore fitfully at the cloth until the emblem was freed. Angel had observed his efforts with distinct unease, scuttling back and forth in the small space as he observed Banjee first from one eye and then the other. Now Banjee focused on the bird as swimming stars began to blot his vision.
"Angel, you got to do one more thing," he panted pleadingly. Angel eyed him face-to-face, black yellow-rimmed circles peering forcefully at thin ovals fading to bloodshot gray. Inside, Banjee used the last of his strength to form a chain of images: the valley of Aldar, the road up the mountain to Highmount and then to the palace, and above all, the serene face of King Baracan. "Take this to Baracan. Give it directly to him."
Concentrating with all his fevered might, he pushed the scrap of cloth toward Angel. The bird eyed it and then Banjee again. "Barawwk!" Angel screamed.
"Go on, Angel. This is goodbye. Take it to Baracan." With sheer willpower he held the king's image until it wavered and spun away. Then the rook stepped on the emblem and closed his right foot around it.
"Thanks, old friend. Take care..." Banjee’s eyes closed on the heat and the pain and thirst, and with another cry, Angel was gone.
The sun had risen again before the two Nomers found Banjee's body, stiffened on its side, arm outstretched as though he'd tried to crawl home with his dying breath. It was embarrassing, how much difficulty they'd had in following his tracks in the rocks from where his deer had wandered, and they approached the still body with caution.
"That's the last," Gorison muttered in relief in the fluid tongue of his people as they shoved the tangled brush aside. The young warrior, no gray in his long, carefully-plaited dark brown beard, glanced sideways at his companion, an older shorter man whose braided beard fell almost to his waist. Because of the plaguing bushes that tugged at their yellow-sashed robes, both had pushed back their hoods. Few grasslanders cared for the forest, where vision was limited and a man must dismount and walk.
"See what he carries," the older man ordered stiffly as sweat beaded his leathery forehead, drawing tiny gnats toward his eyes. He wanted out of the oppressive tree lands as quickly as possible. The younger man, obediently rifling Banjee's pockets, found only a dirty square of cloth and a miniature drawing of a woman pasted inside a silver locket. The warrior offered the picture to his superior and then tossed it when Kardasin jerked his head away in disgust. Taking Banjee's sword as proof they had found him, the two quickly retreated down the rubble-covered hill.
"We go home now?" Gorison inquired cautiously, holding back a branch for the older man. It was clear Kardasin was in a foul mood.
Instead of agreement, the veteran warrior gave a cryptic laugh. "Not yet, young fool. We're hardly finished, are we?" His dark eyes beaded on Gorison, whose taut face must have mirrored his confusion.
"Surely, elder, we don't carry the fight all the way to their homelands. Through these trees? Won't they have more archers with which to greet us?"
"And why do you think they would welcome us with arrows? None of these mice have made it through to warn them."
"But still," Gorison mumbled apologetically, "why go any farther?"
Kardasin came to an abrupt halt and turned to face his junior. "Idiot," he said flatly with excoriating contempt. "Think. We have a herd of wagons filled with coralin that the mice desperately want. What do you think we should do?"
br /> Comprehension finally dawned. "Ahh! We carry it to them. In return for even more wool!" The idea seemed to delight Gorison as he chortled in glee. "But will the chief of the red and black’s agree to this?"
Kardasin shook his head in dismay at his protégé’s slowness. "He must. It is the rule of the tribes. He has asked our help and must share the prize."
Gorison wasn't a complete idiot. "The mice took a toll on us. Plus they can only take a portion of our coralin in their wagons when they come. Perhaps we should keep them cornered in their mountains in the next years and take the coralin to them? Take the wind from their faces."
It was a novel thought, and the old warrior shut his mouth on his repressive retort. The idea might be something he could take to the chief, he speculated, never considering any credit to the garrulous young Gorison. He must consider the issue. He'd watch while they took their share of the coralin to Aldar. Should the mountain mice acquiesce much as he thought they would, then the idea was one well worth considering.
King Baracan seemed to hear Sa Silma's message from somewhere far away. It was too unbelievable, too awful, and his unwilling eyes fled from her earnest face to the thick panes of the windows behind