 
PEREGRIN

A. Sparrow

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 by A. Sparrow, All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook should not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase a copy from Smashwords.com. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Sam and Frodo

Chapter 1: Siklaa Gorge

peregrin (n) – a foreign sojourner in a state.

A month before the rains...

Snug in a cleft of sun-warmed stone, Bimji scoured the road for signs of the overdue caravan. Sheer below his feet, a chute channeled runoff and loose rock to the bottom of the gorge where the Siklaa River, withered by drought, gurgled unseen in a bed clogged with boulders.

An elegant viaduct carried the road, curving and reversing, along the river course, hoisting it high over columns and arches. The valley folk called it 'the caterpillar.' The wonder of the frontier, slaves had labored ten years to build it. People came from afar to gaze upon its glory, surpassing any castle or temple in Gi. Bimji had even brought his own family to see it. He almost regretted the havoc that he and his fellow conspirators planned to unleash.

Innocents would perish under Tarikel's dark magic. The caravan, if it ever came, would include not only soldiers but settlers and their children, slaves and prisoners of war. Bimji tried not to think too hard about it.

Vultures accumulated overhead, gliding in concentric circles around towers of convection rising from the plateau. Bimji licked at a seep oozing down a crease, finding barely enough water to moisten his lips and tongue. Gritty and metallic, it failed to quench his thirst. He envied Tarikel's cousins hiding in the boulder caves beneath the viaduct, able to drink their fill at their whim.

Something shifted on the fringes of his perception, slipping around a bluff before he could get a clear look. Needles pricked his skin.

He honed his gaze on an open patch of road at the end of the viaduct. A man appeared, leading a donkey loaded with curled sheets of cork. They traveled alone.

After days of trading watches deep in the gorge, Bimji had begun to doubt whether a caravan would ever pass this way again. Perhaps the Venep'o had tired of the petty sabotage that had plagued them in the gorge and had gone back to using the longer but safer route over the mountain passes.

Not that he would complain if it turned out to be true. It would mean that Tarikel would call off the attack. He could return home with Lizbet none the wiser, having shown his loyalty to the rebel cause without risking his skin.

As man and donkey moved on towards Raacevo, tension drained from Bimji like wine from a split skin. He slumped against the stone, watching the shadows fill the gorge like a rising flood. Time's machinery seized. The hours eroded Bimji's vigilance. He found himself watching marmots setting scraps of weed to dry in the sun, lizards scurrying onto ledges to bask. The cleft concealing him radiated the warmth it had stolen from the sun, beckoning like a vertical bed. He wedged himself deeper, conforming his flesh to the smooth stone.

His eyelids sagged. He chomped on his hand to keep them open. He only had to hang on a bit longer. The sun was falling. Soon, Paoala would come relieve his watch.

Hoof beats. Horses.

Senses fogged by fatigue, Bimji was not sure he believed his ears. He focused on the point where the road passed between an isolated stone pillar and the sheer wall of the gorge, the farthest stretch of roadway observable from the ledges.

Six horsemen appeared riding sleek mounts. Lightly armored, bearing crossbows and sabers. Crasac scouts. Bimji poised to run, but waited to ensure this was not merely some patrol returning to their garrison in Raacevo.

Donkeys laden with dry goods trotted onto the viaduct followed by a contingent of Crasac foot soldiers, their uniforms crisp and vibrant, fresh from the training grounds. Then came mule teams, hauling wagons by the dozen, bearing furnishings, foodstuffs, war machines.

Bimji's pulse pounded so hard, he could hear it. He scrambled up the chute.

"They're here!" he called, climbing onto the rock shelf where Tarikel and Paoala lounged on slabs strewn like furniture, their encampment out of sight of both gorge and plateau.

"You're sure... this time?" said Tarikel.

"Can't you hear them?" said Bimji.

Tarikel's gaze turned inward. The creak of a hundred wagons and the shouts of their drivers expunged all doubt. He hustled to his feet, scowling at Paoala who stood frozen in place on a slab like a statue atop a pedestal. "Quit gaping and go!"

Paoala dashed over to a scalloped wall and yanked away a blanket covering the niche bearing Tarikel's dark materials. Her hands darted, collecting unlit tapers, spark stones, handfuls of tinder, and bundles of tovex.

She tossed one of the bundles at Bimji. Taken by surprise, he fumbled it off his fingertips. Paoala gasped, but he trapped it with his foot before it could tumble over the edge.

"Easy now, you two," said Tarikel, as he packed their bedrolls. "Your haste is wasted if you take a tumble."

Paoala scurried to the chute, Bimji at her heels. They climbed to the cap of hard stone that topped the plateau and parted ways, heading in opposite directions to bracket the span of the viaduct.

"Good luck, Paoala," said Bimji, cobwebs burned from his skull by the fire of panic.

Paoala nodded back, eyes peeled as wide as eyes could open.
Chapter 2: Reunion

The end of the first rain...

Chaos ruled the clouds. Beneath rumpled and silvered sheets, darker shreds flew like ravens to a feast. In the high peaks, a thunderhead burgeoned and grumbled, probing black fingers down ravines. Sunlight sifted through fleeting breaks to glaze the waterlogged landscape.

Frank braced his hand on Tezhay's shoulder. He gasped for air, heart balking like an engine with a clogged filter. Zigzag patterns swam before Frank's eyes. The mud at his feet beckoned him to join it. As he fought to stay vertical, he stared transfixed at the female figure limping towards him past gauntlets of shacks and barns, villagers taking refuge from the plunder, terraced fields buttressed with stone walls that swarmed with sweet peas.

They stood at the base of a narrow vale that hung over the main valley, whose river coursed unseen beyond the treetops, its presence only suggested by a crease in the distance. A splintered crag, like a shattered castle tower, loomed to their left. The opposite wall was less imposing, but steep enough to challenge the goats that speckled its face. Gullies fed cascades into the roaring brook that sluiced through a notch, racing like a comet to hurtle over the cliffs. Beyond the gullies, tiers of meadow stepped ever higher into mist and mountain.

Frank's heart announced its return from stasis with an emphatic compression that rebounded off his ribcage and wobbled his innards. The fog nibbling at the edges of his vision burned away, letting him bask in the full glory of this vision of Liz coming down the muddy walk.

Frank kept his eyes transfixed on her as she descended through a hamlet's worth of hovels and barns clad in shakes and thatch, towards terraces planted in grain and potato and vine that somehow caught enough sun to thrive. This woman—his woman—flowed downhill like the rain-fed rills. She was an apparition turned corporeal, the one who for twenty years had visited him only in dreams.

She was a transformed Liz—weathered, evolved—with a muscular bulk to her bare arms far beyond the wiry, tennis-enhanced tone he had known. And she no longer sported the waspish midriff of a nullipara. She walked stiffly, dragging one leg as if it were made of wood.

She wore her hair much the same—long and loose, with honeyed swirls and curlicues, its color retained. She carried her chin at that same, distinctive jut, taking in the world like a benign goddess for which all of creation was created. And as she closed on them, he detected her default smile, the one that cushioned anger, hid sorrow and betrayed her amusement with all that was ludicrous about the world. There was no mistaking, this could only be Liz.

A pair of lanky yellow dogs caught sight of their master and bounded across the fields to join her. Frank felt paralyzed by the moths riddling his innards. He stared down at the runnels gurgling through ditches on both sides of the muddy path, racing to their destiny at the cliffs below.

"Go to her." Tezhay nudged him hard. "Is this not your woman?"

"I gotta take this slow," said Frank, his eyes leaking. His legs trembled, rooted to the earth.

Two young women separated from the ragged line of men and woman defending the cliff top and came up the lane. One, obviously another exile, had mousey brown hair tied back in a bandana. Startled, blue eyes bulged above a veil covering her nose and mouth.

The other, younger woman—a girl—wore no veil. She carried a longbow, and studied him with eyes just like the Liz he remembered, the eyes he could never conjure in dreams. Her hair, clotted into thick skeins by the rain, flowed down her back in thick, dense waves, just like Liz's.

"Oh my God, you're another exile," said the Liz-like girl with the longbow, her English clear but oddly accented. "Where are you from?"

"My friend," said Tezhay. "He know this lady." He indicated Liz, hobbling down to them.

"Ellie, who are these people?" said Liz. "I thought I told Miles to turn everyone away. We have too many refugees as it is. How are we supposed to feed them all?"

"They're not refugees, mom," said the girl. "They say they know you."

"Know me? How? I've never... I've... I...." She stopped a few steps away in the muddy track. Puzzlement creased her face.

"We never meet," said Tezhay. "But I know one of your men—Bimji."

"Knew," said Liz. "Doesn't surprise me." Her gaze kept flitting over to Frank like a nervous fly. "Everybody and their cousin knew Bimji."

Frank smoothed his beard, which had grown in thick since he left Belize. He tried to say something, but found his tongue all knotted up. His circuits were overloading. He couldn't conjure or coordinate any speech or action.

Liz's eyes locked onto Frank's. "Ho. Lee. Shit!" she said, chest heaving.

"Hi Liz," Frank croaked, his voice cracking from the strain..

A shudder rippled through Liz's face and her muscles went all soft. Frank's heart beat like a sparrow's. He watched her eyes gloss over. Was that moisture beading in their corners? He stepped forward, arms outstretched to take her into his arms.

But Liz retreated. Her moment of weakness came undone with the speed of a spring-loaded steel grating, ossifying her features back into an impenetrable bulwark. She wheeled around and lurched away, swinging her bad leg wide.

"But Liz, it's me! Frank."

"Mom, what's wrong?" said Ellie, hustling after her. "Do you know this man?"

Liz clapped her boots down hard against the mud and fled up the path, dogs twining in her wake. Frank tried to follow but the dogs turned on him, snapping and snarling with tails tucked, fangs displayed. One circled back to feint and nip at his flanks while the other held Frank at bay. Frank backed up slowly until he bumped against a stone wall. Tezhay flicked a rock at one's rump hard enough to draw a yelp. The dogs abandoned their defense and caught up with Liz as she slipped into the nearest outbuilding and slammed the door.

"What happen?" said Tezhay, eyebrows quizzical. "Why she do this?"

"Don't know," said Frank, softly. He stared up at the shed. He has never felt so heavy, as if he might sink and be swallowed by the earth, and welcome it.

"How come you no stop her?" said Tezhay. You should have hold her. Why you do nothing?"

"I don't know!" said Frank.

"You people," said Tezhay, shaking his head.

Thunder shook the mountainside. The sky split open and drenched them.
Chapter 3: The Approach

Through a glittering veil of sun-dappled raindrops, the red car rattled up the road. The vanguard of Captain Feril's militia walked ahead, but the main body followed behind the car.

Canu sat alone behind the wheel, Pari and Vul having long bailed out, weary of bouncing against the roof like seeds in a pod. When drizzle misted the front glass enough to obscure his view, Canu opened the window and reached out with his hand to wipe it. He found Ara staring at him as if he had grown eyes on stalks.

"Is that how you've been clearing the windshield?" she said.

"Why?" said Canu. "You have a better way?"

"I do," she said. She stomped over and reached into the open door.

"Here." She flicked a lever beside the steering wheel and two arms swept up and scraped the glass clear. She pressed something else and a strange smelling bluish liquid, faintly suggestive of spirits, squirted the glass.

"How was I supposed to know this?" said Canu, climbing back in.

"Sorry," said Ara. "I should have told you."

She walked off and rejoined Captain Feril on the flank of the lead column. Canu had argued that the red car, being armored should lead the way, but he had been overruled by Feril, who failed to appreciate the military utility of this potent machine. Of course, it would have helped Canu's argument if the contraption wasn't painted bright red.

At the last stream crossing, Feril had come over and with meek deference, tried to encourage Canu to abandon the car. "Please Comrade, Sir," Feril had said, addressing Canu as if he were a cadre officer like Ara, and not a simple militia drone like the rest of Feril's fighters. "Don't you think our stealth would benefit by us all advancing on foot?" Canu had simply sunk lower in his seat and glowered until Feril slinked away.

Stealth? Coasting downhill, and even on the flats the red car was deathly silent, and even when climbing it barely put out more noise than the shuffling steps of Feril's hundred-odd fighters. Canu wasn't about to abandon this treasure. What else did they have that gave them such an advantage over any Cuasar horsemen they chanced to meet? How could Feril not see how much the car's presence boosted the morale of the militia marching alongside him, patting its metal skin for good luck?

Ara had taken Feril's side when he had suggested abandoning the car. Canu saw her glare every time his wheels spun in the mud or squeaked against a boulder.

Yes, the road was getting rough, but the car was strong and Canu knew how to make it go. Now that most of the lowest-hanging parts had torn off, the vehicle no longer caught on every protruding stone and log. The hollow wheels still retained their pressure. If one became punctured there was a replacement stored in back.

Canu had sensed something shift in Ara's interactions with him ever since she assumed command of Feril's outfit. In Ur, they had bonded. They had become a team, at least, if not a couple. But now he felt as if a layer of ice had formed between them. Anything Canu said or did grated Ara.

Canu couldn't comprehend what he might have done to change her feelings. Was she simply maintaining a professional distance? Or had her feelings towards him truly changed since they left Ur?

Of course, neither of them had ever expressed outright to the other the precise nature of their feelings. Their relationship was implicit, conveyed only in glances and touches, in cloaked words. The link was subtle enough to be overlooked by a bystander, and fragile enough to be shattered by a whim. Canu hoped he wasn't deluding himself, that there really was something happening between them, and that he could reverse whatever force had disturbed their equilibrium.

Canu worried that Ara might have become smitten with Feril. She had spent every minute of their march walking beside the militia captain, ostensibly discussing tactics and intelligence, but Canu suspected there might be something more going on between them.

Who was this Feril but a privileged miller's boy, given a fancy title, and command over a hundred-odd spawn of farmers? It was not as if he was some brilliant and fearless tactician. Canu and his ilk knew gads more about fighting than these greenies.

Where were Pari and Vul? Lost somewhere in the ranks. Completely ignored.

And then Ara stepped out into the middle of the road with one hand on her hip and her other palm held out, signaling for Canu to halt. At least she had noticed him.

***

Successive ridges, rumpled like wrinkles in the skin of the land, shoved against the unyielding spine of the Maora Mountains. Ara had instructed Feril's scouts to halt below the next crest. It was the last rise screening them from the Mercomar station, whose gleaming heliograph relayed messages from the farthest reaches of the colonies.

Ara rubbed her palms and found them clammy. She had shown no lack of bravado in proposing the assault on the Mercomar, or in commandeering Feril's troops under false pretenses. But now that they stood on the brink of battle, she felt the bite of reality.

Her temperament had always been much better suited for solitary service. That was why she always volunteered for long-range scout duties in the militia, and how she thrived before the war as an apprentice Traveler, alone in St. Johnsbury, learning the ways of the Urep'o. Risks to her person she embraced. But when she imposed it on the hundred-odd men and women under Feril's command, she quailed.

To what fate had she committed these unsuspecting greenhorns and why? Did she really intend to break the truce and initiate the long suspended counteroffensive? Or was she merely demonstrating her loyalty to her new friends and disavowing her link to Baren and the machinations of the Inner Quorum?

On the surface, the short-term risks seemed modest. Ara had visited this Mercomar on many occasions, scouting alone and with militia in training. Baren and his predecessor had placed it off-limits for raids and few Nalkies ever troubled it. Like sheep on an island free of predators, the Mercomar's operators and defenders had grown complacent. With each successive patrol, Ara found evidence of its slackening defenses: inattentive guards, a garrison relocated off the summit into a col with a spring.

Taking the Mercomar did not worry her as much as the ramifications of commandeering the heliograph and transmitting those eight flashes of eight. Every infiltrator in Gi knew that code as the call to battle. But the counteroffensive had been deferred so long, what if the First Cadre and their Nalki allies no longer monitored the Mercomars? Would the militias mobilize without the coordination and support that they expected from the other forces and be slaughtered piecemeal by the occupying armies? Would taking the Mercomar ultimately do more harm than good?

With a whine and rattle the red car rounded the bend leading the main body of militia. Ara stepped out into the road and halted it. Canu sat alone inside, ever stubborn in his insistence on bringing the car along, though it was clearly never intended for such a rough track, traversed mainly by goats and herdsmen to reach the upland pastures.

Canu made a show of avoiding Ara's eyes. Why was he acting so odd?

Pari and Vul often ridiculed Canu's mental balance. Yes, he could be rash and moody, but all in all, Ara had found this reputation undeserved. Now she was beginning to see what they meant. Ever since Captain Feril had joined them, Canu had been acting like an overgrown boy.

Could he possibly be jealous of her spending so much time with Feril? If Feril was going to fight with them he deserved to be consulted. Did Canu have any inkling what she was going through in leading this operation? Ara was in no mood to humor his juvenile whims.

She strode up to his open window. "Find a place to ditch that thing," she said. He glared back, but she didn't blink. She kept her chin set, and her tone firm.

"What for? It's rolling fine now," said Canu. He made the engine groan. The wheels gripped and surged. "See? No backsliding. The footing's not as loose here as on that other hill."

"I don't care how it rolls," said Ara.

"We've brought it this far... might as well—"

"Canu! Listen. This thing can't come with us. The last thing we need is for the Mercomar sentries to see it or hear it. We can't give them time to call up their garrison or we're sunk. Understand? Once we get onto the back slope of this rise, we will be visible to them."

"Just... leave it?" said Canu, giving Ara a look like a small boy forced to surrender a toy.

"You can't bring it much farther anyway," said Ara. "The road gets much rougher up ahead."

"But we're coming back this way, right?" said Canu.

"I don't know," said Ara. "That depends... on how things go."

A pall slammed over Canu's face as his gaze flew past Ara's shoulder. Ara turned to see Feril walking back from the ridge top where his scouts had gone ahead to sniff out potential ambushes.

Glaring, Canu popped the lever that caused the car to reverse and careen backwards down the track, scattering the clot of Feril's soldiers gathered to watch.

"Why is he angry?" said Feril.

"Just a small disagreement on... tactics. Don't worry, it's all resolved."

"I don't think he likes me," said Feril.

"Nonsense," said Ara.

Feril leaned against one of those trees with smooth, pale bark that seemed to grow on every sunny slope in Gi. "The way ahead seems open," he said. "But the scouts see smoke rising from the main ridge."

"Smoke? A brush fire?"

"Campfires," said Feril.

"Too bad we won't make it in time to share their dinner," said Ara. "I think we should hold up here. At least until nightfall."

"We'll join them for breakfast, perhaps," said Feril.

"If all goes well," said Ara, quaking at the thought. "At the base of the next hollow we should find a ravine that shoots straight up to the Mercomar."

"You know this land well," said Feril.

"I've been here many times... too many times," said Ara. "I've had my eye on this Mercomar ever since I came to Gi."

"Me, as well," said Feril. "I saw it flash my first morning in the marshes. Shocked me. Burned like an insult. All those 'all is clear' messages, every morning and every night. I'd love to put a stop to them."

Boulders and cedars cast long shadows up the slope. Dusk had already settled into the valleys below as a bloody sun sank beneath the treetops.

Ara watched Canu back under a drapery of low-hanging branches. Several of Feril's soldiers gathered to gawk at this marvel from Ur, rolling up hills with not a single beast to haul it.

"Don't just dawdle, help him disguise it," said Feril. "I don't care if any herders see it, but do enough to keep it hidden from afar."

As Vul and Pari walked together up the track, Canu ignored them. He slammed the door and stomped away. He found a tree by the roadside and swung beneath it to sulk.

"Such a child," whispered Ara.

"What's wrong with him?" said Vul.

Ara shared a knowing glance with Pari.

"Ah, Comrade Sirs," said Feril. "We should share our plan with you." He turned to Ara. "Can we?"

"Go ahead," said Ara.

"But... Comrade Canu?"

"I'll fill him in later," said Ara. "Go on."

"Our force will be split into three parts," said Feril. "Each of you will command detachments."

"Are you two up for this?" said Ara.

Pari nodded.

"Of course," said Vul, fingering the red-painted axe he had liberated from the old man's shed in Ur.

"I will lead the main force," said Feril. "Under Comrade Ara's purview, of course. Comrade Vul will conduct a blocking maneuver to keep the Mercomar guard from being reinforced. And Comrade Pari will support the main assault with a reserve detachment.

"I expect there should be a dozen Crasac guards at most posted on the summit," said Ara.

"Only a dozen?" said Vul. "Then one detachment should be able to rout them."

"Yes, but it won't be you. Feril and I will attack the Mercomar with a small group of his best. I want you to take a larger force and cut off any support coming up the ridge from the garrison. You should understand, Vul, that your group is key to the success of this plan. Last I scouted, the Venep'o kept a large garrison on the other side of Maora Ridge. They can be up on the ridge within an hour once called. You should be able to cut them off, or at least delay them. It's excellent defensive terrain. Much more rugged than this western slope."

Canu rose to supervise the camouflage of his toy. Ara caught him giving a furtive glance back to his comrades.

"Pari, you will watch our backs with a small reserve. I don't expect any Crasacs to use this track as they're supplied via the main road from Maora, but we have to make sure that our retreat is clear."

"What about Canu?" said Vul. "Who gets stuck with him?"

"If Canu wanted to participate, he would be here plotting with us," said Ara.

"I'll take him," said Pari. "I can keep him out of trouble."

"Trouble?" said Feril.

"Canu has a way of mucking things up," said Vul. "He's better off in the reserve."

Feril whistled for his militia to rise from the meadows on either side of the track. They numbered well over a hundred, divided into four platoons. Ara figured that Vul should have two platoons for his blocking action, with one platoon each for the attack and reserve groups. It should be plenty of force to overpower the guard, send a signal and retreat before the garrison could react.

Canu intercepted Vul and Pari as they sauntered back down the track. Feril was gathering his troops together to address them. Ara strolled up the ridge to chat with the scouts. She hadn't gone more than a few steps before she heard gravel crunching behind her.

Canu. His face inflamed, even in the dimness. "What's the idea? Sticking me in Pari's reserve."

"Why, I thought you would be pleased," said Ara. "You can keep a closer eye on your red baby."

Canu spat an old Suulep'o curse at her, spoken in a dialect her grandmother used to speak. It was something about a turtle.

"So sensitive!" said Ara. "I was only joking!" said Ara. "Just because you're in reserve doesn't mean you won't be fighting. I expect you to jump into the fray when we need you. You're just as important as the other groups."

"I am a good fighter," said Canu. "The best among us. You, of all people, should be aware of that."

"Boldest, maybe," said Ara. "Luckiest, for sure. But the plan is set. There's nothing more to discuss."

"How long have you known this... Feril person?"

"What does that have to do with any of this?" said Ara, exasperated.

"You spend all day by his side. Barely a peek in my direction."

"That's ridiculous, Canu. We were talking strategy. This is war, man. Not school days."

"I have a stake in this fight," said Canu. "I deserve to be included."

"But you are," said Ara. "You have an important role."

They came up to the crest of the track, where stone-studded heather replaced meadow and wind-stunted conifers stood arrayed like crippled sentries. Two of Feril's scouts turned to face her, their eyes wide. Were they so green that the mere sight of the enemy fazed them?

The Mercomar's heliograph caught the last light of the sinking sun and flashed its last message of the day:

"All is clear. All is clear."

Ara pulled Canu behind a tree, mindful of the silhouette he cast against the setting sun. Canu misread her act, took her hand and squeezed it, and drew her in for an embrace.

"Canu! No," she said.

Canu froze and stared up at the Mercomar. It had gone dull, but a score of small fires now flickered around the base of the tower. More flared into life as they watched, dozens more than Ara expected. She stared in disbelief.

"So many fires," said Ara. "This is not how it was, last time I scouted. What's going on up there?"

"Dinner," said Canu.

Feril came striding up out of the twilight. Ara slipped her hand from Canu's grasp.

"Oh my," said Feril, upon seeing all the fires on the mountain.

"We have to abort the raid," said Ara. "There's no way we can go up against so many."

"But we must—" said Feril.

"We can't," said Ara. "It's suicide. They defend from heights. They probably have fortifications now."

"We must... at least try," said Feril, his face rigid. "I mean, mustn't we? You said Commander Baren himself ordered this attack. Did he not?"

Ara looked to Canu for support, touching his arm.

Canu pulled away. "What do you want from me?"
Chapter 4: Tovex

Months earlier...

Bimji squeezed up a chute, emerging above a wall of pale stone, its uppermost cant easing like the bevel atop an axe blade. It was an easy scramble across to a deeply undercut ledge that brooded over the gorge like a brow, but he chose his steps carefully. Below him stretched nothing but vertical walls and air. One un-arrested slip meant death.

Toe-holds grew scarcer, the facet smoother, the farther Bimji clambered. His plain leather slippers had no edges to bite with, but the suede clung well to the rough stone.

Upon reaching the overhang he jammed his body into the narrow shelf beneath and paused to catch his breath. He mused at how nice a rain shelter the deep undercut would make if not perched above such a deadly precipice.

The bulge of the gorge wall blinded him to the road immediately below. He had no way of seeing how far the caravan advanced, but so close to Raacevo, he knew they would not dally. They would push to reach the city by nightfall.

Downriver, though, Bimji had a clear view of the viaduct. The nature of the traffic crossing it horrified him. Clearly, this caravan carried more than colonists and commerce. Siege machines and war wagons crossed the spans between ranks of Crasacs.

Tarikel's cousins hid beneath, in the jumbled bed of the Siklaa River. The plan called for them to darken the boulders with river water when midpoint of the convoy had reached the viaduct. The boulders thus far remained dry and pale. The river lurked somewhere beneath, hinting of its presence only in occasional trickles and pools.

A thousand slaves had built the spans: mostly prisoners of war, convicts marched in from Venen or procured in Gi. Hundreds had given their lives completing it over the years it had taken to finish

Bimji couldn't help but admire the work they aimed to destroy. Expert masons from the Venenendera's private guild had supervised the construction, carving precise blocks from the gorge walls, fitting them without mortar. They had turned their quarries into stairways that zigzagged up the gorge wall like lightning bolts, cutting through the maze of spires that loomed over the gorge.

Out of boredom or inspiration the masons embellished the landings with shrines to the three brother gods: Fanhalahun, Pasemani and Cra. They directed springs to cascade beside the flights to create waterfalls, carved benches atop landings where the views were particularly spectacular.

To destroy it all seemed such a waste, but what else could they do? The easier passage had accelerated the pace of Gi's occupation, attracting many more colonists than had braved the longer and more treacherous mountain routes.

Bimji unpacked a red coil of fuse, blasting caps, tovex, tinder and tapers from the bundle slung from his shoulder. In a groove of stone, he made a little pile of resinous fluff taken from the seed pods of a torch flower and weighed it down with a lozenge of flint and a bar of steel from his pocket.

He crossed to the center of the overhang and packed tovex into the crevices he had already chiseled into a crevice, inserted blasting caps and a long loop of red fuse, carefully inspecting it for gaps in the powder and dampness.

Bimji checked the boulders beneath the spans. They remained pale. Traffic on the spans had halted. The Crasacs had dispersed. There were wide gaps between wagons. Had their plot been sussed out?

Bimji listened carefully to the wind. He could faintly perceive shouts and voices but detected no unusual commotion.

Bimji's charge was to be the first blow, then Paoala's. The idea was to block the roads fore and aft, to concentrate the caravan on the spans. Then Tarikel's cousins would take them down, wagons and Cuasars and all while they fled through the boulder caves.

That's how the plan was supposed to work, anyway. None of them, not even Tarikel, had blown up anything larger than a tree before. He had placed only a small charge. The idea was to loosen just enough stone to let the rock do most of the work.

Bimji did not even expect to witness the results of his efforts. Once he lit the fuse he would have less than a minute to make his way over to the chute and up to the top of the plateau. The old road to Venen ran there, below the pass where the glittering heliographs of the Mercomar station relayed messages from the Venenendera to his governor, the Alar, in Raacevo.

Tarikel had never discussed what to do if his cousins were captured or otherwise unable to set their charges and send a signal. Bimji supposed he would do nothing in such case—just leave the charge and go, back to Raacevo, and then back home to Lizbet. He could reach the homestead by sunrise if he traveled all night.

Bimji propped his heels against the groove holding the tinder and stared down at the stalled caravan. A wave of vertigo fluttered through his skull as he contemplated the scale of the abyss that opened up just a short slide down the ledge. Guilt nagged at him because the possibility of aborting this mission intrigued him a little too much.

***

The tovex came into Bimji's hands via a mysterious Sesep'o who showed up on the high meadows one day. Bimji was helping to drive several flocks of goats and sheep down from pastures that had gone dry and dormant from lack of rain, and into one of the still-verdant dales. He had stopped by the goat house—a communal stone cabin in the high meadows that sheltered shepherds—to retrieve his bedroll and a gourd half-filled with beet wine that he planned to finish on the homeward run.

On leaving the hut, he spotted two figures standing by a barrow several stone throws away. It was rude to ignore visitors to the commons, especially those visiting ancestors, so he altered his route back to the lower meadows to greet his neighbors and show his respects. It was not uncommon for villagers to visit these barrows, bearing keystones fitting a notch on the boulder marking their loved ones' graves.

But as Bimji approached, he saw that this was no family communing with ancestors. Tarikel, a notorious Nalki sympathizer from Sinta stood with a man clad in the strange clothing of the sort he had seen peregrins wear. But he was not a peregrin himself. The Venep'o might think he was from Gi, but Bimji knew immediately from the way the stranger spoke that he was from Sesei.

Tarikel leaned on a digging spade. The Sesep'o man brandished his like a weapon as Bimji approached. The sod surfacing the barrow was criss-crossed with seams of red earth. It seems the two men had just interred something or someone. Extra soil was scattered among the dry grass at the foot of the barrow.

With only Tarikel and a stranger in attendance this was obviously no ordinary funeral. What were they doing next to a barrow? Disposing of a murder victim? Looting? Bimji now wished he had pretended not to have seen them and had continued directly home from the goat house, but it was too late for that now.

He would need to pay courtesy and convey to the men that whatever they were doing was of no significance to him; certainly not worth mentioning to anyone else. In this time of occupation and rebellion, ignorance was survival.

Bimji pulled down his veil and passed greetings. Bimji had met Sesep'o before. Most seemed friendly, inquisitive types. They were often oddly fascinated in what Bimji considered the most numbingly prosaic aspects of daily life in Gi—what people ate, what people wore. Some spent entire days picking every type of wildflower there was to pick, catching beetles or cataloguing each variety of fish in a stream. They colored his impression of Sesei as a land of eccentrics infatuated with the obvious.

But this Sesep'o man's demeanor unnerved Bimji. He stood and stared, hand on cloak over the spot where the Sesep'o liked to strap their daggers. He acted as though Bimji had caught them in the midst of committing a crime.

"It's alright, my friend," said Tarikel. "Bimji's one with us. He's helped me stage raids. We'd see more of him if only his lady would let him off the farm."

"Is this your pasture?" said the man.

"Mine? Um, no. It is a commons. We share it."

"Of course," said the man.

"I trust you will help us keep this mound safe. We're storing some important things here... for the resistance."

"Of course we will," said Tarikel. "Isn't that right, Bimji?"

"No worries," said Bimji. "Don't plan to add my bones to this barrow. Nor anyone else's, for that matter."

The man tittered nervously. Tarikel caught and held Bimji's gaze. He grinned conspiratorially, oozing the restraint of a starving man trusted with the keys to a larder.

***

It was Bimji's task to deliver the tithing to the Venep'o agents. The Alar sent wagons to every village once a moon to collect tribute from any Giep'o clan that farmed or trapped or fished. The local Polus in Xama and Sinta commandeered a roadside barn to make the collections.

Bimji had loaded a single donkey with charcoal from their kiln, a meager tribute, but the best they could do this far out of season. Their grain stocks had run down nearly to the reserve they would need to re-seed. There were plenty of roots in their cellars, but the Sinkor faith forbade any ingestion of any crop harvested from beneath the soil. And it was a shame, because Bimji was tiring of stews of radish and beet and parsnip.

At the Polus barn, Bimji could see from the queue that many others were in the same predicament. Other villagers and woodsmen had come with wagons and beasts loaded with furs, flax, and raw hemp. The only foodstuffs he saw were some grapes and tree fruits; almost no grain. The Alar would not be happy not having flour for his bread.

The Polus tallied his offering and marked a shingle in receipt. Bimji took it and doubled back towards Sinta with his beast, pausing by a shaded gully to retrieve an extra sack of charcoal he did not wish the Polus to seize. Once in Sinta, he tied his donkey by a wooden stockade fence with some tall grass growing beneath it, and hoisted the small bag of charcoal onto his shoulder.

Bimji headed for the ruddy door of the traveler's tavern for his customary monthly tankard of honey beer. Lizbet never much liked him going there because of the shady clientele such places attracted, but she tolerated his one indulgence. Bimji went their not only for the honey beer, but for news. In such turbulent times, news from travelers could mean the difference between surviving and not, as the residents of Verden found out when the Alar decided to turn their little valley into a gated colony. If such a thing was to happen in Sinta, Bimji wanted to know in advance.

Rugs lined the outer wall of the round tavern. The tavern keeper served his beer in tankards and bowls from a large clay cistern in the center of the room, on a table integrated with the central support of the structure. Half the diameter of the hut was screened off into sleeping quarters.

Bimji deposited the charcoal on the clay floor. Hiltahu, an unveiled and ancient woman beamed with her few remaining teeth.

"You're too generous," said Hiltahu. "Unless you plan on drinking many more bowls."

"Just one for me," said Bimji. "But if Ellie or Tom ever visits, perhaps you can favor them a drink."

"A meal as well, perhaps? We have barley."

"I've already eaten," said Bimji. "But thank you."

Hiltahu filled a tankard with the bubbly, yellow brew. Bits of bee and honeycomb floated here and there. Bimji just picked them out and tossed them on the floor. He retired to a round of carpet by a vent in the wall that offered a view of passersby on the road. The tavern harbored several other clusters of people, most of whom he knew, but he wasn't feeling particularly sociable. He just wanted to sit back and listen to their words, and maybe if he heard something that interested him, introduce himself and inquire further if the topic interested him.

But when Tarikel spotted him, he wasn't afforded that luxury. The older man waved him over. Tarikel had two of his cousins with him, and a woman named Paoala whose veil seemed to come and go every other time Bimji saw her in public. Bimji went to them reluctantly. It would have been impolite to stay away.

"Bimji of the hills," said Tarikel. "Meet my cousins from Raacevo."

"I think we've met before, no?" said Bimji.

"Have you?" said Tarikel.

"You and your clansmen get around," said Bimji.

"So you've met Paoala, as well?"

"Seen her about," said Bimji. He tipped his head to her.

"Bimji's a hills man," said Tarikel. "Hunter, tracker, herder. Though of late, he's settled in, married a foreigner, a peregrin no less."

"This true?" said Paoala, her face lighting up with curiosity. "What is it like?"

"What do you mean?" said Bimji.

"She must have... unusual habits, no?" said Paoala. "What she eats. In the bed."

Bimji took a long, slow breath, seeking patience and restraint. "She's just a woman. Like any woman. Like yourself."

Tarikel's cousins, silent till now, laughed.

"Paoala is not just any woman," said Tarikel. "She is special... in some ways."

Bimji looked her over, seeing a woman who was wiry but elegant, rough-clad but well-groomed. Nalkies used concubines to infiltrate the Venep'o garrisons and temples. She seemed the type, but Bimji didn't see what made her so special.

"Lizbet's a good woman," he said. "Strong. Kind. I am very lucky." Bimji's hand went to his veil. He nudged it back up his cheekbones.

"Why is it she takes so few spouses?" said the veil-less Tarikel. "Her farm is large enough. And she has only you and the two children and the other peregrin... the skinny one."

"The other peregrin is stronger than she looks," said Bimji, smirking. "But I'll pass on your offer. We could use some help shoring up our terraces. You look like someone who can haul some stone."

The cousins snickered. Paoala smiled broadly.

"Better that I stay unattached in my line of work," said Tarikel.

Bimji sipped from his tankard. The honey beer was weaker and more bitter than usual. The tavern keeper must be making thinner batches to stretch his reserves through the dry season. It would be months before the rains began again and the bees came out of their dormancy.

"How are things in Raacevo?" said Bimji.

"How do you think?" said Tarikel.

"My guess would be awful," said Bimji. "I don't know how you stand it. All those Venep'o."

"It's not just the Venep'o anymore," said Tarikel. "Must be half the city folk have converted to Sinkor. Every day they recruit more Polus."

Bimji winced. "Why do they do it? I don't understand."

"Safety," said Paoala. "They never purge the clans that show up at temple."

"You should consider converting then, Tarikel," said Bimji. "Or at least carve yourself some of their demon gods to place on your mantle."

"You laugh," said Tarikel. "But you should see my mantle."

Tarikel turned to Paoala. "Bimji is a veteran of the first raids. He rode with us in Maora, when we struck the new colony."

"Really?" said Paoala, a sparkle igniting in her eyes.

Those were hot-headed days, as Bimji recalled. Maora had been home to his mother's clan. Those who refused to leave their land were driven off by force; the survivors enslaved, including several of Bimji's clansmen.

"That was ages ago," said Bimji.

"Exactly," said Tarikel. "Where have you been hiding?"

"I have a farm to tend," said Bimji. "I don't get involved with Nalki business anymore."

"It's a shame," said Tarikel. "We need more like you, not fewer. Especially now... with all the purges."

"Are you... recruiting me?" said Bimji, lowering his voice.

"Wasn't my intent," said Tarikel. "But now that you mention it."

"I really should be getting along," said Bimji, shoving aside his tankard.

"And... we too must be leaving," said Tarikel, rising from the bench. "But I'd like you to join us for a spell. I have something you should see."

"See what?" said Bimji.

Tarikel had a giddy look in his eyes. "Remember when we last met?" he said. "By the barrows in the uplands?"

A chill rippled through Bimji. "Is that what this is all about?" he said. "I... I never spoke of it to—"

"I know," said Tarikel. "And we're grateful. But I want to show you something from those barrows. Just a little demonstration. Come across the fields with us for a bit."

In spite of himself, Bimji found his curiosity stoked. He had always wondered what Tarikel and that Sesep'o man had stashed in the false barrow by the goat house. He had been tempted to excavate one of the crypts. Only taboo held him back. What if it turned out to be an actual grave? He regretted mentioning the incident to Tom. Ever since he did, he was always catching the boy poking around the mound whenever they had chores in the high meadows.

Tarikel smiled. "Finish your drink. I can tell you're interested."

One of Tarikel's cousins lit a punk from the hearth; the kind the marsh folk burned slowly to generate smoke to keep mosquitoes at bay. They left the tavern, crossed the river over the causeway, and traversed a field full of mature white beets, bulging from the soil like so many green-haired foreheads.

Beyond a screen of trees that separated the silted flats of the beet fields from the sloping meadows, Tarikel pulled from his pocket a length of red cord, a small silvery cylinder, and a larger white cylinder with ends twisted closed like a sausage. He attached them to each other with smears of resin and bits of twine and tucked the resulting contraption under the curve of a well-rotted fallen log.

Tarikel took the smoldering punk from his cousin. "You might want to take a few steps back," he said.

"What's this? A fire starter?" said Bimji, looking down. "That log's full of rot and damp. It will never burn."

"Move back," said Tarikel.

Bimji obliged, following Paoala and the cousins behind the stone wall that lined the top of the meadow.

Tarikel blew on the punk until it glowed and touched it against the tip of the red cord. The cord hissed and spat like an angry snake as the sparks worked their way toward the tube of metal. Tarikel watched it for a second, backing away, and then turned and ran.

As Tarikel hopped over the wall, a clap of thunder burst from the log, painfully loud and accompanied by a powerful wind that blasted their faces. The ground shook, rattling the stones in the wall. Bits of rotten wood rained down on their heads.

"How?" said Bimji, mouth agape.

"That was nothing," said Tarikel. "This is but a tiny sprig of the magic in those barrows."

"Why are you showing me this?" said Bimji.

"We trust you," said Tarikel. "You kept quiet about the barrows. And you've helped us Nalkies before. So... are you in?"

***

Bimji thought about ignoring the appointment, feigning forgetfulness. But as the day grew closer, he found the necessary arrangements falling into place under his subconscious direction, driven by the undercurrent of excitement that the affair lent to his daily activities.

Until one day he found himself guiding a cart load of bundled parsnips to Raacevo to trade for some bolts of soft hemp cloth. This was not Bimji's usual task. He offered to run the errand on the pretense of sparing Lizbet's injured hip from the bumpy roads.

Once on the road, his apprehensions reasserted themselves. As he approached the road block on the outskirts of the city, he began hoping that Tarikel would not show as scheduled, so Bimji could get through his business and go home, escaping his promise, but saving face by keeping up his end of the agreement.

But they were there, across the road block, standing in front of a tea vendor—Tarikel and Paoala and the cousins. They spotted him before he could turn around.

They swarmed out onto the road to meet him.

"What animal eats the sky?" asked Tarikel.

"This is silly, Tarikel," said Bimji. "There's no need for secret passwords, you know it's me."

"This is important!" said Tarikel.

"It is a swallow feasts on the wing," said Bimji, reluctantly.

"We were worried you wouldn't show," said Tarikel. "Glad to see you're with us."

"Am I?" said Bimji as his insides clenched. "I have yet to hear your plans."

Tarikel looked about, waiting until a family passed and their little group was alone on the road.

"We're taking down a bridge," said Tarikel whispered.

"Which one?"

"The viaduct... in Siklaa Gorge."

"That's crazy," said Bimji. "That's a mountain's worth of stone."

"We have the means," said Tarikel. "The materials are already at the site. We just need extra hands."

"You plundered those barrows?" said Bimji. "Won't the Sesep'o be angry?"

"I doubt they'll notice," said Tarikel. "We only took a portion of their clay."

"Clay?"

"The white tubes. Tovex, they call it," said Tarikel.

"Not sure I want to do this," said Bimji. "It's not a good time. We've got shearing to do. Planting season's coming up."

"It won't take long," said Tarikel. "The caravan's due any day. It's overdue, in fact. We'd need you for two days at most."

"Caravan? You plan to destroy a caravan?"

"As they pass over the viaduct, yes."

"I... don't think I can spare the time," said Bimji. "Maybe next time."

"Next time?"

"I'm sorry," said Bimji.

Tarikel and the others stopped in the road and watched Bimji continue on without them.

Bimji made his trades—sold the parsnips, bought the hemp. It was too late in the day to return to Sinta before nightfall, so Bimji made his way to the humble traveler's inn where he always stayed when he visited Raacevo. When he found Tarikel and his cousins waiting for him, his heart sank.

After two bowls of potent honey beer and an impassioned pitch from Tarikel, Bimji reluctantly joined them on the south road. Paoala caught up with them halfway to the homestead of Tarikel's clansman, where Bimji left his cart and donkeys and Lizbet's bolts of cloth. The effects of the honey beer were already wearing off as Bimji made his way up the plateau with Tarikel and his gang of saboteurs. It was too late to back out and retain any dignity.

***

As the time waiting for the caravan had lengthened into three days and nights, Bimji had grown increasingly anxious. His alibi for returning home late—a tithing issue—had been completely shot by the end of the second day. Lizbet knew how fickle the Venep'o could be with their roadblocks and curfews, but a three day absence went beyond any excuse Bimji could dream up and reasonably expect Lizbet to believe.

But now that the caravan had arrived, all else was moot. Now, finally, Bimji could set the charge, escape across the plateau, retrieve his wagon and go home. He didn't need to stick around for the results. He could let Tarikel report to him how everything went whenever he next saw him at the tavern in Sinta.

A piercing whistle sounded and the stalled wagons again began to roll across the viaduct—massive, ship-sized vessels pulled by six mules apiece, each wagon with wheels taller than a person. Bimji noted a tiny flurry of movement below the central span, and a large boulder beside it suddenly darkened from a drenching of river water. It was the signal he awaited from Tarikel's cousins.

Bimji's stomach lurched. Now the initiative belonged to him. Bimji struck the flint with the steel. Hot sparks ignited the tinder in a brief flare that sufficed to ignite his taper. The wind carried a tiny curl of smoke out over the void.

Bimji edged over to the charge, protecting his taper from the wind with one hand, leaving no hands to brace himself as he traversed the exposed ledge. Bimji's heart pounded and he swooned at the sight of all that open air below his feet.

He tucked the taper into a crack beneath the overhang and stuck one end of the red burn rope deep into the silvery capsule, crimping its end closed with his teeth. He pressed the cap into the wad of tovex already in place and unwound the coil of fuse.

Satisfied it wouldn't double back on itself, he took the taper and lit the end, moving quickly towards the chute as soon as sparks began to spray.

The fuse pulled free from the blasting cap and dropped onto the ledge, sliding towards the brink. Bimji reacted instinctively, and before he could stop himself he was sliding after the coil. He dug his fingernails into the stone and pressed his body flat. The friction slowed him to a stop an arm's length away from the brink. His knee, luckily, had trapped the fuse which had burned down several hands. He stuck it in his mouth and crawled back up to the overhang, pulling himself up by a gnarled and stunted tree that clung to a crevice in the wall.

The fuse still burning, he considered snuffing it out, but it still had a long way to burn. He worked the fuse back into the cap, broke off the stem end of his punk, and jammed it in to hold it.

As soon as it was secure, he tore across the ledge and into the steep chute that funneled down to a broad step in the gorge wall. He snapped a glance towards the viaducts, satisfied to see a large contingent of Cuasars following the huge clerical wagons. A few stones knocked free and bounced down the chute and over the terrace, sure to give the Venep'o a preview of what was to come.

The footing in the chute was loose and steep. He slid back with every increment upward. He braced himself for the explosion, expecting it to rattle the cliffs at any moment. Bimji hauled himself up by pulling on the twisted trunks of the ancient cedars that clung to the gorge wall. The lip of the plateau lay just out of reach.

Bimji heard voices. He peered over the ledge that topped the ravine wall like a capstone. A Crasac patrol was making its way along the gorge wall. They had Tarikel bound, and were shoving him along. Their backs were turned. They moved parallel, but opposite the route of the caravan.

Bimji had no choice. He had to keep moving. Any moment, the charge would blow and when it did it would sweep Bimji into the gorge in a torrent of tumbling stone. He hauled himself up onto the plateau and ran across the spongy heath, heading for the only patch of trees between the gorge and the road.

As he ran hunched over, Bimji startled a band of Polus sitting in a hollow amidst the fragrant heather, enjoying a cold meal of hard wafer and dried fish. Bimji veered away, but kept running. They exploded off their rumps in pursuit. The weighted end of a long whip flew at Bimji, wrapped around his ankle and tripped him. A swarthy Polu pounced on him and held him down, while another secured his ankles with a leather thong. They dragged him face down to the edge of the gorge, shoving him forward until his head dangled out over the void, directly over the spot he had placed the charge.

Hands patted him down and removed a small knife from his belt.

"This is all he's got." The voice was gruff, guttural.

"Another spy? Watching for the caravan, eh?" This person had the accent of a plains man. He might have been from Maora.

"Take me away from the edge!" said Bimji. He could smell the acrid smoke of the burning fuse wafting up from the ledges below.

"Why? Afraid of heights?" said the plains man.

"Stick him over the edge," said the gruff one.

"You will die if you keep standing here!" said Bimji. "You along with me."

"What is this?" said the plains man. "Is this little worm threatening me?"

The charge should have blown by now. Bimji wondered if the fuse had fallen yet again. He could only hope that it had.
Chapter 5: Miles Displaced

A week before the rains...

Behind the rock shop, cornered in his red Prius, Miles cowered from his attackers. A feral trio circled his car—two women, one man—all wearing over-sized clothes, hair matted and twisted and jutting in spikes. Like Maori warriors they glared and growled, stuck their tongues out and bared their teeth. One woman popped up and scrunched her chapped and filthy face against the side window. The other drummed her calloused fingers against the glass.

Under ordinary circumstances, Miles might have blown off these punkish antics as merely absurd and annoying, but the hissing, sputtering stone in his grandmother's cookie tin changed everything.

Mist poured from the trunk around the corners and through the 60/40 split of the back seat. Lost somewhere behind it, the infernal stone rattled and squealed in the tin like a shackled demon, destroying Miles' typical cool under duress.

With quaking hands, Miles fished for his cell phone in the nest of ear buds and charger cords tangled in the bottom of his pack.

"911... 911," Miles repeated, over and over like a mantra.

His fingers closed against a familiar curve. As he pulled out the phone, a loud thud against the door made him jump and fumble it between his seats. As he jammed his hand down into a detritus of old chips and bits, a wild-eyed man rushed towards the car, hefting a hunk of mortared brick. Miles threw up his hands. The bricks crashed not against the windshield, like he expected but against the pavement. The wild man used the fragments to chink Miles' wheels.

What did they want? The car? His money? The Stone? They could have it all if they would only back off and give him a chance to flee, if only they would say.

Mist filled the interior. The windows fogged over. Miles wiped a swath clear with his sleeve. A man ran up with a fire extinguisher and whacked it against a side window, trying to break through. When it merely bounced off, the man let loose and covered his windshield with white dust.

The squeal in the trunk deepened into a groan. A painful pressure built in Miles' ears. The car began to vibrate. A patch of slender cattail-like reeds sprouted in Miles' back seat. Miles extended a finger to touch them to see if they were real. They flexed against his touch.

A deep, slow thunder rippled through his bones. Miles levitated, as if a sinkhole had opened up in the lot and the Prius had been wrenched backwards into it. He knocked his head against the roof. The dashboard smacked his chin. The suspension creaked and the car came to rest at a tilt.

All became calm. The stone was gone.

Miles huddled on the storage hump between the front seats, breathing heavily. He swiped again at the misted windshield. His Prius leaned into a tiny tarn, boggy around the edges. He faced down a slope of increasing declivity that dove into a valley of dense and continuous forest. But the few trees growing at these heights stood bent and twisted like cripples, defeated by the wind.

Miles slid into the driver's seat and started the car. He tried backing out of the bog, but the wheels spun free, kicking up water and weeds. He flicked on the radio. His FM pre-sets returned only hiss. He tried AM. A station quickly locked in.

"Newsradio 880. WCBS news time is 3:07. Terror trials in Manhattan? CBS News has learned that—"

He flicked off the radio.

***

Many minutes later he was still sitting there, waiting for reality as he knew it to reassert itself, for the order of his universe to be restored. He gradually came to the realization that it wasn't going to happen on its own.

He pieced together in his mind the unlikely shards of circumstance that had stranded him on the side of this mountain.

It began with a stone. An interesting stone. Too interesting, as it turned out. "Just a chalcopyrite," said Mr. Brown, the rock shop proprietor. "Nothing terribly uncommon or valuable. Just copper ore. Fool's gold in peacock feathers."

He brought it back to his apartment and added it to his collection on the mantle. That night, the hallucinations and delusions started– noises and visions in his kitchen. He spent a sleep-deprived day at the office accomplishing nothing, doubting his mental health. His biggest mistake was going home and expecting the insanity to stop.

Miles listened to the chill wind suck at a sliver of open window. This was no insanity. The vast and howling wilderness beyond his windshield would not be denied.

Panic descended like a smothering pillow. He modulated his breathing, meditating, willing, forcing himself to be calm. Fog re-accumulated on his windshield, this time from his own breath. He started up the car again, spun his tires some more, sprayed water out of the bog until he recognized the futility of it and shut off the engine.

If he was going to get anywhere and figure out where he was, he was going to have to step outside.

He reached into the backseat for his backpack, unzipped and pulled out his wind-resistant L.L. Bean fleece and put it on. He yanked out the used books he hauled around everywhere but never read, tossed his netbook onto the seat. He kept the radio and the extra batteries and a half-empty and dented Poland Springs bottle. Popping open the glove compartment, he cleared out every speck of chewing gum, melted and re-congealed Starbursts, Hershey bars turned chalky.

When he had everything ready, he could not bring himself to leave the car. He sat for long minutes and stared at the clouds, at the furrows the wind carved into the treetops below, advancing in Vs across the landscape.

He spotted his cell phone lying by his foot. He picked it up, surprised to find two bars lit up on the coverage display.

Who should he call? His best friend, Tony, had recently moved to Syracuse to work for IBM. Tony wasn't going to be much help from there. But did it really matter where Tony was? Miles was not in Connecticut anymore.

His ex-girlfriends, all two of them, still resided in Connecticut; Leah in New Haven, Joan somewhere in Fairfield County along the MetroNorth line. Miles would brag darkly to friends over IPA about the starkly opposite reasons for each breakup. Leah, the wiser of the pair, dumped him the moment his neo-grunge band started to get some serious gigs. Joan, the sort-of-groupie, left, he was convinced, when and because the band met its demise.

Neither relationship could be objectively regarded as serious, long-term commitments, but to Miles each encapsulated an eternity; each a tragedy. All parties had moved well beyond the point of caring an iota about each other's personal predicaments, but they talked from time to time at parties and such.

Each had new phone numbers entered into his phone, numbers that he had never called. Miles still had the same number he had had since college. What if they had caller ID? What if they wouldn't pick up? And if they did, what would he tell them?

Miles went with something more dependable, something guaranteed. He checked to make sure the signal had maintained its strength, and pressed speed-dial #1.

"Hullo?" came a creaky, Long Island-inflected voice. The connection was strong and clear, though there was a strange whirring in the background, and a squeal that altered pitch as it faded in and out.

"Uh... hi Mom. It's me, Miles."

"Of course it's you," she said. "Is... everything alright? You don't usually call me on weekdays. In fact... you don't usually call. I call you."

"Well, I just wanted to let you know... in case you tried to call... that I'm taking a few days off of work and... I'm going... hiking."

"Hiking? You?"

"Well, yeah... it's... healthy. Exercise. Fresh air."

"You're not by yourself, I hope."

"Oh no. No. I'm meeting some... friends."

"Is Joan going with you?"

Miles felt a twinge of discomfort. Of all his girlfriends, Joan had been the one his mom had liked the most, the one she had pinned her hopes on, and the hardest one for him to lose.

"Um, Mom... Joan and I... we...." A doorbell rang across the voids, its tone sounding hollowed out, emptied of pith. "Miles. I have to go, the nurse is here. Have fun... hiking. Give me a call when you get back. And say hi to Joan for me. It's been so long since I've seen her. You should bring her to visit sometime."

The connection clicked off. Miles watched the connection indicator flicker between two and three bars. His battery held nearly a full charge, but he held the off button down to save some juice. Having phone service was a good sign. Now he wished he had an AT&T coverage map, just to see the range of possibilities.

The place felt like Canada. It was green and cool enough for the Maritimes, but there was not a speck of ocean anywhere. It was too mountainous, as well. Interior British Columbia, maybe?

He dialed the Greymore police station, the number still in his phone from the time his Fender Precision was stolen out of a practice studio downtown. It sounded like chaos at the other end of the phone. He spent precious minutes on hold before the receptionist came back on the line.

"Sorry sir, things are pretty crazy right now... how can I help you?"

"I'd like to report a missing person," said Miles.

"Okay. And this person is... related to you, how?"

"The person is me," said Miles. "I'm in my car... and I'm lost. I mean... really lost. I was wondering if you could just trace this call. Tell me... where I am?"

A pause ensued. The commotion in the police station filtered across the line: the chatter of multiple radios, panicky citizens, over-stressed supervisors.

"Were you... inebriated... at the time of this event?" said the receptionist.

"Nuh-uh," said Miles.

"Name? Address?"

"Miles Pawluk. 289a Oxford Road."

"Make, model and license plate?"

"Red Toyota Prius. BSL 279."

"Oh my God! You're the one," she said. "You're the one they saw disappear. Hang on!"

She put him on hold. After a few seconds, the connection disengaged. Miles frantically tried to dial back, but the coverage indicators had vanished.

***

Miles passed the hours in a daze, listening to the wind whistle, watching it ruffle and ripple the moors surrounding him. He started the car up once in a while to check the radio. Sometimes he had reception, sometimes not.

Someone will find him, he told himself. The police knew now that something had happened to him. He had not imagined it.

"Hug a tree," was what his dad had always told him to do if he ever got lost. Staying by his car would make him much easier to find by helicopter. Problem was, the scenery outside his window looked nothing like Connecticut. He wasn't sure helicopters existed in this place, or that anyone would be searching for him.

He ran the engine long enough with the heat cranked up to get the interior good and toasty. He reclined the front seat as far as it would go and closed his eyes.

Hours later, he awoke dry-mouthed and shivering in the dark. The sky was mottled with cloud and stars. A sliver of moon glowed feebly behind a swift-moving sheath of mist.

He started up the car again and turned on the radio. This time he found nothing on AM or FM, though he wandered up and down the frequencies like a lost child in the aisles of a supermarket.

He sank into the car seat and stared out the windshield, until his rapid breaths had completely fogged up the glass. He retrieved his iPod and wheeled past all the dark and moody collections that dominated his playlists, seeking the most neutral and soothing techno he could find. It did the trick, settling his heart so he could drift off again.

Miles opened his eyes to rivulets of dew spilling down the interior of his windshield. The sun was rising to his right. His ear phones remained in place, but the iPod had long ceased playing, its battery dead. He plugged it into his pocket charger and listened to his heart pound.

An image crossed his mind of the authorities finding his starved and withered corpse, much like that McCandless kid who had walked deep into the Alaska frontier and never walked out. He wasn't about to let such a thing that happen to him. There was a time for staying put and a time for moving on. Forget hugging trees, he would hoof himself back to civilization.

The door creaked open. Rarefied air hit his lungs like a shot of dry-iced vodka. The boggy tarn was surrounded by a nearly treeless bowl. Tufts of heather and stunted trees filled the gaps between boulders.

He wondered how high the mountains rose beyond the lip of the bowl and thought about climbing as high as he could, to get the lay of the land, but the scale and emptiness of these moors terrified him. It would be like an ant ascending a brick wall.

Going down made more sense. That's where the people would be, if people even lived in such a place. All he could see was unbroken wilderness.

He stepped away from the car, Nikes squishing in soggy moss, weaving through half-dead trees with sun-silvered limbs and the sparsest tufting of needles. He glanced back at the car, already so far away, so tiny, like a lone little berry in a Christmas wreath.

He paused above a gully, and swung the pack off his shoulders. Another few steps and the car would be out of sight. The thought of being separated made him panic. Could he find his way back?

He found his phone and turned it on. The coverage indicator wavered in concert with waves of nausea originating deep in his stomach. He fumbled through the junk in the bottom of the pack until he found the little pocket radio he used to listen to baseball games at work. Autoscan picked up a decent signal from WCBS—some doofus chattering about whether the Jets quarterback should play through a knee injury. Hearing that made him feel a bit better, and gave him the confidence to continue.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the gully, pushing through thickets of glossy-leaved trees with waxy, salmon-colored bark, leaving the little red car behind.

***

The road Miles found spurred mixed feelings when he stumbled onto it. He almost walked right past without noticing the twin tracks which seemed barely wide enough for a donkey cart. Roads meant people, except this one was so overgrown, it was likely weeks or even months since anyone had passed. It was better than nothing, but not exactly the sign of civilization he had had hoped for.

His nerves gnawed at him. He stopped and checked his phone again. Still no coverage. The radio blasted static that caused his heart to lurch, but he held it up and turned in place, until WCBS came back in loud and clear. Interesting, how the signal strengthened when the radio faced the place he left his car.

He yanked weeds, snapped branches and kicked up dirt to mark the spot and continued downward along the meager road, traceable only through the stunting of the weeds in the shallow ruts. His heart continued to pound in his throat.

This could have been avoided a hundred ways. Here it comes, the self-flagellation. But it was true. This incident, whatever it was, didn't have to happen. The simplest solution, when the stone first started acting funny, would have been to call the fire department. But no, he had to avoid making a scene. He had to handle everything himself. Not that the authorities would have dealt with the weirdness any better, but at least it would have been their weirdness to deal with.

But truly, he had sensed something creepy about the stone from the moment he touched it. Why he felt so driven to possess it, he didn't know. It seemed singular, one of a kind, and cheap for something so unique and beautiful. The collector in him had a knack for recognizing special things that others passed up as ordinary. Sometimes it worked out well, like the intact geode he had purchased that he had cut open to reveal pinkie thick crystals of amethyst. And sometimes his instincts got him flawed and worthless gem stones, or chunks of fool's gold that excommunicated him from the land of his birth.

***

After work, at the dive around the corner from his office, Miles swigged the dregs of his draft, girding himself for home. By now he had convinced himself that those specters in his kitchen had been hallucinations—the spawn of stress, or one too many Ambien.

He was no stranger to drug-induced visions. In his gigging days he had experimented with all manner of street drugs, some of it, no doubt tainted with angel dust. He remembered one night coming home all wired, taking a few pills to calm down, clicking on ESPN, and settling into an easy chair. Maybe he forgot and popped a couple more. In any case, the pillows on his sofa began to move. They crawled and hovered around his flanks like lions stalking a wounded zebra, keeping just out of his peripheral vision. He remembered dashing for the bedroom and slamming the door.

What differed about the incident that morning was its 'in your face' blatancy. It started after four, not quite five, hours before his iPod clock radio was due to jar him awake with death metal decibels. The weirdness centered over the rock collection on his mantle: the fist-sized lump of rose quartz he had pried from a ledge in the White Mountains, two-toned basalts from Prince Edward Island, and the miscellaneous curiosities he had scrounged or purchased over the years from quarries and rock shops like the one down the block.

He watched in the reflected light of a street lamp as they vibrated and danced to the edge of the mantle, dropping like lemmings onto the floor. All save the newest stone, which sat rooted in place as its neighbors trembled and fled.

An aura appeared, warping the grid of brick and mortar behind the mantle. The air became flecked with specks resembling video static. Out of nowhere, a frigid wind wound up and howled through his living room, scattering leaves and grit that crunched under his bare feet. A tree trunk sprouted in his fireplace. The air of the apartment filled with the pungent aroma of coniferous resins.

Voices arose, male and female, their language unintelligible, their tenor distressed. Human silhouettes appeared, mostly insubstantial and sketchy, but occasionally a limb would solidify, a face would emerge as if slipping from behind an invisible curtain. The eyes of a woman appeared and locked into his gaze. Fierce and feral, she had murderous intent. He fled out the door, carrying his shoes, careening down the stairwell and out onto the sidewalk.

Outside, all was calm. The visions disappeared as abruptly as if flipping a switch. He stood in his underwear wondering if he should creep back upstairs. He chickened out, went to the car and selected a wrinkled shirt and a pair of stained khakis from the bag of dirty laundry in his trunk. He had driven to work two hours early, skipping breakfast. In his cubicle, he sat and stared at his baggie of 'zombie pills', heart pounding. He sure needed one, but fought the urge. If Ambien were the cause of these visions, he didn't need to conjure them at work. His composure finally returned, about the time folks started showing up in the office.

The kernel of dread that had lain dormant most of the day, began to reassert itself as his four o'clock quitting time neared. As irrational as it seemed, he couldn't help but worry that the hallucinations were somehow connected to the physical space of his apartment, and specifically the stone on his mantle. He didn't usually stop at the pub in the middle of a workweek, but he needed a little extra courage that day.

The shot and a beer hadn't done much to ease his concern, but at least they gave him the will to get off his stool and move towards the door. The little no-name pub with the green, neon Rolling Rock sign was the only drinking establishment left in Greymore on this side of the bridge. The place had languished for years, though lately the clientele seemed to be undergoing a transition. Used to be, one would only find Italian guys from the brass mill camping on their barstools. Of late, an influx of fringy twenty-somethings like Miles had come to frequent the place, charmed by the moldy ambience, not to mention, the proprietor's tolerance for death metal.

Charles, the lead singer of the band with which Miles' played rhythm guitar, had persuaded Earnest, the owner to let them play a gig there, to boost patronage with a little live music.

But despite the lack of a cover charge, the band's presence had no discernible effect on patronage or liquor sales. The few friends who showed up were broke, dry, underage, or all of the above.

At least they hadn't scared off the regulars. It took a lot more than growling voices and thudding basses to drive an old man off his bar stool.

That gig at the pub was Miles' last with the band, which imploded and disintegrated like all of the other failed bands Miles had joined over the years. Ironically, it was one of the best shows he had ever played. No audience, no stress, no flubs... and unfortunately, no tape.

Miles stepped out the door into the cool evening air and went to his car, parked at a broken meter. His apartment building was just up the hill a few blocks, an easy walk. Regardless, Miles drove everywhere he went, even to the grocery store a half a block away.

He parked in space right next to the stairwell and sat there, idling for a minute. He felt fine, the whisky and beer imbuing only the mildest of buzzes. He pressed park and turned off the ignition. The apartment building hadn't burned down. No windows were smashed. He took a long, slow breath and stepped out of the car.

The stairwell echoed with his footsteps. He paused outside his door and pressed his ear against the weathered paint. Coldplay piano chords chimed from his clock radio. In the absence of anyone to punch the snooze button, it had come on in his absence and had stayed on all day.

Miles turned the key and bustled inside. All seemed fine. No apparitions. No delusions. The stones were all in a row on the mantle where he had left them. He stood and took inventory of his head.

Satisfied with his sanity, he went into the bathroom peeled off his grungy work clothes, and adjusted the water in his shower nice and hot. He decided he'd go get a couple pizza slices from Panarea's after his shower, come home, and go to bed early.

Miles lathered up his stringy hair. Was it getting thinner or was he just imagining that, too? Something clattered outside the bathroom. A high-pitched whistling. What the hell? He hadn't turned on the stove to make tea. Wrong pitch for his teapot, anyhow. Maybe it was the plumbing? Miles shut the valve. The squealing persisted. Miles rinsed, toweled off, and burst out of the bathroom.

The squealing came from the mantle. He popped his head inside the living room. Miles' heart skipped and fluttered. Stones lay scattered across the floor. All except one. The chalcopyrite hissed at him and then fell silent.

Miles approached the stone cautiously. Reached out for it gingerly. Tapped it. Plucked it off the mantle.

It felt really cold. It didn't quite burn like dry ice, but almost. A thin coating of frost had accumulated. Miles passed it from hand to hand and almost dropped it. Its weight seemed to fluctuate. The center of gravity shifted randomly, shifting from one edge to the other.

This was just wrong. He had to get rid of this thing—dump it, toss in the river—or better, bring it back to the place he bought it. Someone else had to see and acknowledge what this thing was doing. It couldn't all be in his head. Could it?

The rock shop was just down the street. He had kept the receipt.

Miles brought the stone into the kitchenette and put it on the center of the table. It immediately started to vibrate and creep towards the table's edge, He grabbed a tin of now stale cookies his grandmother had sent him and clapped it over the stone. He scraped it onto the lid and secured the top.

Miles ran into his bedroom and pulled on some clean jeans and a T-shirt. When he came back the top had popped off the cookie tin, and the squealing had resumed. Now the tin surrounding the stone squealed in harmony. Miles grabbed a paper shopping bag, swept the cookie tin into it and made for the door.

As he burst out of the stairwell and onto the sidewalk he snuck a peek inside the bag. The sides of the cookie tin were crumpling in and out, as if it were breathing. The air above it warped the light like a liquid lens, alternately magnifying and telescoping the rustic winter scene printed on the tin. The head of a horse pulling a sleigh appeared to rear at Miles.

Miles crumpled the top of the bag closed. Hallucinations? Couldn't be. The cold seeping through the tin stung his skin. Real condensation seeped through the brown paper. Whatever has happening inside that tin was real, too real. Miles hit the sidewalk and ran to his car, heading to the rock shop and exile.
Chapter 6: The Caravan

Bimji winced and waited, lying cheek to stone, wondering how he was to die. Torn apart in the imminent explosion? Dashed against the boulders below? Tortured slowly by Crasac guards?

A bright flash snuffed the shadows. A blink later – thunder, curt and brittle. A shock slammed through Bimji's insides as the stone beneath him rippled and heaved. Rocks flew. Smoke and dust billowed out over the void. A Polu fell atop of Bimji. Another barely avoided spilling over the brink.

Bimji expected the overhang to crumble and fall but it held, protecting them from the force of the blast, directing all projectiles down and away from them. Tarikel had intended its mass to provide the bulk of the material that would block the road. Bimji squirmed to see what their fiery alchemy had wrought in its stead. Rocks sluiced down chutes, but this was not the cataclysmic avalanche Tarikel had predicted.

The patrolling Crasacs had reversed course and swarmed back towards the Polus with Tarikel in tow.

"Toss the bastard over!" said the gruff Polu. They grabbed Bimji's arms and legs and lifted him.

"No! Put him down! Preserve him!" A Crasac officer and his patrol rushed to the precipice.

"We want him tossed, we'll toss him," said one of the Polus. "We have a commission from the Alar himself to enforce these uplands. This is our territory."

A feisty bunch, thought Bimji. Unfortunate, for Tarikel and himself. Most Polus behaved more submissively before their Venep'o patrons.

"Fools!" said the Crasac officer. "We need to learn what they know. We need to know how they did this."

Bimji heard scraping, and then a thud. He turned and found himself staring into Tarikel's bloody but calm face.

"We failed," said Tarikel, in hushed tones. "Some rubble fell onto the road, but those big wagons will roll right over it."

Bimji felt too sick with regret to answer or even look at Tarikel. He didn't care about the road or the caravan anymore. He could only think of Lizbet, about how he wouldn't be returning to the farm with her bolts of homespun anytime soon, if ever.

"Maybe the stone was too strong," said Tarikel. "Or we didn't use enough tovex... didn't put it in the right place."

A modest report reverberated up the gorge from the other end of the viaduct.

"Paoala," said Bimji.

"Too soon," said Tarikel. "And again, too small."

"For Cra's sake, you stupid Polus, separate those two!" said the Crasac captain. "Don't let them speak."

As the Polus dragged them apart, another explosion rocked the canyon. But this explosion was monstrous compared to Bimji and Paoala's detonations, a basso profundo, apocalyptic rumble that shook the canyon rim to rim.

A cloud of spray and grit from the river bed flew upward and outward, bursting through the center of the closest arch. The roadway split apart and twisted two ways, spilling wagons and beasts into the gorge. Those following behind abandoned their wagons and fled as the roadway collapsed. Others milled about, confused, and were claimed as the structure collapsed.

A second explosion sent water and stone blasting upward through the farthest span. Is supports toppled inward. The roadway tilted, funneling some who fled into a gyre of crumbling stone.

The Polus, stunned, dropped Bimji and Tarikel on the ledge and backed away. The Crasacs fanned out in all directions as if they expected to be targeted next, swinging their crossbows as if mere bolts could deter the forces that destroyed the viaduct below.

"Those rascals!" said Tarikel. "How much tovex did my cousins take? No wonder we didn't have enough." He grinned at Bimji, but Bimji could not share his pleasure.

The middle support of the viaduct now stood alone like a tower, stranding a small contingent of the caravan. Panicked beasts careened about the small space, slamming into people, knocking some over the edge. As the wheels of wagons caught in the void, they kept rolling, dragging their still hitched teams with them over the precipice.

A smile formed on Tarikel's bloodied face, but Bimji could garner no pride from the act, only shame for what his actions had wrought for his family.

The risk of discovery was supposed to have been minimal. Polus rarely ventured near the gorge rim, never mind Crasacs. He had expected to set the charge, flee unhindered across the moor and learn the outcome from Tarikel back at the tavern in Sinta.

Now Lizbet would never receive her bolts of homespun hemp. Their only market wagon, parked behind the homestead of Tarikel's cousins, would likely be confiscated by the Venep'o as would the two mules tethered in the cousins' paddock. Who would tell her of his capture? Who would finish the plowing and planting?

The Polus yanked him and Tarikel back to their feet by the thongs binding their wrists. Bimji knew he would never be returning to the farm. He would never see Lizbet again. And now he knew exactly how he was to die.

Chapter 7: The Alar of Gi

The rumble of the steam horn propagated deep into the Temple's roots, rousing the Alar Benka from an unintended slumber. He and the Elder Brothers, accompanied by a bevy of Initiates, had just spent a long night in prayer, assuaging the wrath of Cra. Men's voices, young and old, still droned from the many niches lining the circular corridor.

Benka roused himself from the carpeted floor of his private chamber, marveling at the stamina of his high priests, still going strong with prayers begun at dusk. Shaken by the news from Siklaa Gorge, Brother Yiall had determined that only communal prayer could stem the tide of foul fortune. So they had descended beneath the courtyard and arrayed themselves around the feet of the obelisk of Cra that speared the Temple.

The panic arose when the Mercomar in the foothills had flashed frantically against the fading light, sent terse and vague reports of wicked happenings at the viaducts in Siklaa Gorge. Only the vaguest sketch of the incident could be transmitted before nightfall snuffed the mirrors of its heliograph.

One passage in particular chilled them: 'A wind so powerful it shattered stone.' Those words sent them dashing to their prayer rooms.

The Alar excused himself from the Brothers and hustled up the ramp leading to the circular courtyard and its soaring, phallic monument to Cra. A contingent of Cuerti guards, mustering in response to the alarm, dropped flat when they saw him. Benka was not only Alar, but a former Cuerti himself.

Stairways rose front and back up the courtyard walls, each leading to observation platforms. Out of habit, Benka made straight for the platform over the front gate, the one that faced the mountains separating Gi from Venen. As often as he climbed these stairs, he should be fitter, but they still robbed his breath and turned his thighs to jelly. Old age came with a vengeance, and governing Gi only seemed to accelerate the process.

The young Crasacs standing watch seemed shocked to find the clap of feet on the stairs connected not to their sergeant but to the Alar himself. From the panic on their faces, the Alar surmised that these boys must be new. Benka was no stranger to the more seasoned hands manning this watch tower, He often came before first light, eager for news from Venen relayed by the heliograph on the heights over Siklaa.

Benka pacified the sentries with a smile and the sign of Cra and squeezed between them to gaze down the main avenue leading to the Temple.

Below the plateau rim, a haze of morning cook smoke hung over Raacevo's sprawl. Closer in, whorls of dust, borne by a ripping wind, scoured the ad hoc settlement of merchants, servants and hangers-on sprawling beyond the Temple grounds.

The old hands told him that thick forest had covered the plateau when the Temple was first constructed. Benka's predecessor had ordered every tree removed in a misguided attempt to discourage Nalki raids. It hadn't prevented the man's assassination or the slaughter of an entire barracks of Polus-in-training.

Benka knew better than to rely on landscaping to the provide security. He employed a large detachment of Cuerti and frequent Crasac patrols to bring him peace of mind.

The Nalkies were such a threat, that if Benka had his way, he would never leave the Temple. But he had to show his face in Verden and Maora on occasion, if only to beef up the colonists' morale and remind them that they remained the liege of Venen and subject to its tithes.

Verden was a particularly horrid place, carved seemingly from primordial wilderness. Trees as wide as carriages haunted every road going in. Benka felt much more at home on this sun-baked, dusty plateau – which reminded him of Venen's heartlands.

Several donkey carts appeared over the rim, escorted by Cuasars and Crasacs.

"Mercy of Cra," said the Alar. "Is that all that's left of the caravan?"

The sentries didn't answer. They just looked at each other with troubled eyes, as if expecting they would be blamed and punished for the deed.

Miric, the sergeant of the watch emerged onto the platform, and bowed his head to Benka. Unlike the young sentries, afraid to speak in the presence of the Alar, Miric had no such reticence.

"I noticed you missed the first flashing this morning, your Excellency."

"Yes, well, I had no sleep until dawn. The Elder Brothers had me up praying all night."

"We've learned more details," said Miric. "But of course, the wagon masters and their escorts will be able to tell you firsthand."

"Tell me now," said Benka. "What did you hear?"

"The vanguard made it through intact, mainly supplies for the garrison and a new regiment of Cuasars. They've gone onto Raacevo." Miric bit his lip. "But most of our wagons were destroyed, including many of the siege weapons. Some of the stragglers are still trapped in the gorge behind the collapsed spans.

"Anything salvageable?"

"Well, they're going to attempt to dismantle some of the siege wagons that fell and reassemble them on the road."

"I was thinking more of... What about the... comestibles?" said Benka.

With a holiday imminent – the Birth of Pasemani – the Temple larder had long been depleted of the sauces and pickles they depended on to render their meals edible. The Giep'o concept of spice seemed limited to sulfurous and bitter onions. Eating any item harvested beneath the soil was taboo in the Sinkor faith. How unfortunate it was then that roasted roots formed the staple of the Giep'o diet.

"Ah! Those small carts you see?" said Miric. "I believe they bear items consigned to the Temple."

"Oh... well, that's good." He hoped there would be a crock or two of brined peppers or prickly pears under the canvas.

He noticed two men shuffling behind the carts in shackles.

"Those prisoners, are they—?"

"Nalkies," said Miric. "The very perpetrators of the act, if I'm not mistaken."

"Excellent," said Benka, perking up. "The Elder Brothers will be most pleased to have subjects for their rites. Some feared we would have no blood with which to assuage our Lord Cra."

"These men are not ordinary Nalkies," said Miric. "They wield a powerful sorcery."

"Sorcery, you say? We'll see about that."

Benka couldn't share his knowledge, but he had reasons to believe there were causes beyond necromancy for what happened in the gorge. He would not be surprised if what had happened related somehow to the stones of the Giep'o Philosophers and a place called Ur.

***

The tether fixed to the donkey cart pulled tight and yanked Bimji to the ground for what must have been the hundredth time. One of the Crasacs escorting him chattered and snorted as he had each time Bimji had fallen. His companion was not quite as amused.

"He cracks his skull it's going to be you dragged behind a cart, Sif. The Brothers will want him fresh for the rites."

"Not my fault they're clumsy," said the other Crasac.

The cart dragged Bimji through the dust before he could scramble to his feet with the aid of the Crasacs. His bare shoulder stung from a fresh scrape. Both knees were already shredded. Drops of blood seeped from a contusion on his chin.

What worried him most was the crunching in his knee joint from an injury inflicted by a Polu's staff. The knee was swelling and he could barely swing it. He feared he would fall again.

Tarikel fared even worse. Both of his eyes were swollen shut from beatings. Shoeless, his feet were mangled and caked with blood and mud. On the climb up to the plateau he had spent as much time on the ground as upright, and now he staggered on the verge of collapsing yet again.

"Hold on just a little ways longer, Tarikel. It's not much farther."

"Doesn't matter," said Tarikel. "Dying now might be better than what's in store."

They passed through the Temple village and a cordon of camp followers. Some jeered and tossed pebbles at them, but many stood silent and fearful. The peaked tents of the Crasac garrison lay just behind a row of merchants' shanties. To Bimji's surprise, the carts didn't turn but continued down the lane.

"Tarikel... they're taking us to the Temple."

"Of course they are. We're more than petty criminals. After all... we unleashed the wrath of Cra."

One of the Crasacs scolded Tarikel and batted him with the side of his lance.

Bimji stared at the gleaming Temple dome and the dark pinnacle impaling it. He had often admired it from far below in the valleys, marveling at its shine and how it looked the same from every direction. He never imagined ever coming so close to it. The modest shrines in the Verden and Maora colony settlements did not approach this one's grandeur.

A contingent of Cuerti waited for them at a checkpoint beside the lane.

"We'll take them from here," said a lieutenant. "Return to your command."

"Mercy of Cra," said the Crasacs. They pressed their foreheads against the ground and prayed.

The lieutenant lifted the mat covering the goods in one of the carts and grinned. "The Alar's going to be happy. They managed to rescue some of his booty. I count at least four crocks under here."

"Any smoke leaf under there, Sir?"

"Never mind," said the lieutenant. "Even if there is, it's not for us, it belongs to the Brotherhood."

The Cuerti untied Bimji's tether and brought him around to where Tarikel, unbound as well, lay crumpled in the weeds. The lieutenant strolled over and studied them like a man shopping for meat.

"Not much left of this one," said the lieutenant. "Bring along the stronger of the pair for now."

"Should we finish this one off, then?" asked one of the other Cuerti.

"Not yet," said the lieutenant. "First, let's see what this man has to offer."

They led Bimji up a steep rise to the Temple. It was much larger than it seemed from a distance. Its seamless white stone sheathing practically glowed. Its shape and dimensions seemed inhuman. It looked more like something an insect would create—a mud-dauber wasp, perhaps. His stomach rippled at the sight of the towering obelisk of Cra, flared head rearing like a hooded snake.

They passed through a gated gap in the dome that led directly into a circular courtyard, eccentric to the larger circle of the temple building. From a bird's eye, Bimji surmised it must look like a crescent with points touching—like pincers closing.

They passed the base of Cra's figure and the lesser gods behind him to enter a chamber that the Alar and the Brothers apparently used to view ceremonies in the courtyard. Bimji was glad to see some of the aura of Venep'o invincibility dashed by ordinary mud brick walls used to construct the interior. Some were plastered over with grey lime and bore intricate murals, but when it came down to it, the bones and flesh of this Temple was not much different from a typical farmer's hut in Gi. It was larger of course, but a large enough clan could replicate it. This realization quelled some of Bimji's fears. These men who had taken him were only that. Men.

The lieutenant paused at the threshold of the next room and bowed his head to someone inside. He turned to Bimji's escorts.

"Bring him in," said the lieutenant. "The Alar is ready."

A tall man, his thinning hair braided and grey, lounged on a stone bench beside a porcelain basin large enough to be a farm pond. He wore a robe of a blue deeper than any sky. Gold brocade ornamented its seams. A pair of Elder Brothers, high priests of the Sinkor faith, flanked him in blue robes of their own.

Bimji was shocked to find himself in the presence of the Alar himself. Among the Giep'o he was a nearly mythical figure, rarely seen and rumored to be a being beyond human—a demi-god or demon. He felt the already rapid pace of his heartbeat pick up.

The Elder Brothers were two of the oldest and feeble men that Bimji had ever seen. He doubted that any man or woman in Gi had ever lived as long as these two. Their hands looked like the dead branches of mountain cedars that strove to defy the limits of tree line. Their features were lost in folds and wrinkles that obscured completely how they looked when they were young.

Bimji feared the worst. Old men had little sympathy for sufferers. This ordeal would not be gentle.

"Sit him down, Lieutenant," said the Alar. "The man must be tired. He walked all the way from Siklaa."

"Mercy of Cra," said Bimji, as he descended to the clay floor, grateful but suspicious.

"You're not actually Sinkor, are you?" said the Alar, in Giep'o clear but strongly accented.

"I am not," said Bimji.

"What is your profession?"

"I am a farmer," said Bimji.

"Address the Alar properly!" said the lieutenant, glowering.

"Oh, let him speak how he would to his neighbor," said the Alar. "Let's see if we can make friends."

"As you wish, your Excellency," said the lieutenant.

"So tell me," said the Alar. "What do you grow?"

"Grains and pulses mostly," said Bimji. "Some flowers."

"No beets?"

"Every farmer in Gi grows beets."

"Don't they?" said the Alar, shuddering.

One of the ancient Brothers began coughing. "I have a question," he said, hoarsely.

"Of course," said the Alar, extending his palm."Please, Brother Yiall."

"To which...." He coughed again. "Deity...." Cough. "Do you ascribe the success of your foul deed?"

The question marked the Elder as a quaint Sinkor traditionalist, the kind who thought that all acts involved a struggle between the wills of three deities. A Cra supremacist would never ask such a thing. To them, Cra ruled all.

"None of your three, that's for sure," said Bimji, not caring if he offended. It wasn't clear that self-preservation lay in his best interest. Hastening his execution might mean less suffering.

The old man cursed him in Venep'o, and made to strike him with a staff.

"Now, now, Brother Yiall," said the Alar. The old man hunched over in a fit of coughing. "I think what the Elder Brother meant to ask is... what exactly did you conjure in Siklaa Gorge... and how did you conjure it?"

"We conjured nothing," said Bimji. "It was just fire... and smoke... and thunder."

"Thunder? What kind of thunder undoes the stone work of a thousand men?"

"I... don't know," said Bimji, truthfully.

"Would it have anything to do with a place called Ur?"

"Never been to such a place," said Bimji.

"But maybe you know someone who has? Perhaps this other man... has gone there?"

"Tarikel? No. He's just a trapper. He goes the same places I go."

"You are both Nalkies, are you not?"

"No such thing," said Bimji. "That's just a name you Venep'o slap on those who offend you."

A slow, sly grin spread across the Alar's lips.

"Cage him," said Benka. "This one's feisty. I think we're going to enjoy playing with this one."
Chapter 8: Caged

Bimji's joints screamed to be stretched. He struggled to find a more comfortable contortion in a cage barely fit to house chickens. Urine soiled his tattered trousers.

He wheezed with every breath, his lungs fouled from the tainted fluids the Cuerti had forced him to inhale. A fever smoldered in his brow, bringing nightmares and waking visions.

Over the first nine days he had been let out of the cage for frequent and brutal interrogations, but it had been a full day since his last session with the Sergeant of the guard. One of the Elder Brothers often attended these sessions, but the Alar had lost interest in him early on. While the torture had extracted some elaborate fantasies from Bimji, it uncovered few truths beyond what they already knew.

People hurried past, barely casting a glance towards the cages. The sun disappeared behind the Temple mound. Pre-occupied by preparations for the festivities that day, his captors had forgotten to feed him. Or perhaps it was their intention to let him starve.

Bimji felt his will dissipate. The slender strand of hope he had clung to throughout the ordeal slipped from his grasp. Thoughts of family that had helped him withstand the long days of torture could no longer sustain him. He resigned himself to die alone.

As dusk fell, the Temple on the hill reverberated with music and prayer. Soldiers and colonists and converts alike had gathered to celebrate the birth of Pasemani, one of the three deities that formed the Brotherhood of the Sinkor Natadi.

The masses in the Temple dome overflowed onto the hilltop. One gathering of Sinkor converts droned in unison:

We pray to the Three Brothers of Sinkor Natadi,

We beg for the Mercy of Cra, Bringer and Taker of life,

Soothe him with the blood of conquest

We strive for the Wisdom of Fanhalahun, the Shrewd

Make our industries prosper, our enemies' wither

We hope for the Salves of Pasemani, the Healer

Mend our wounds, ease our grief

To Cra, Fanhalahun and Pasemani, we pray

The ceremony ended with a prolonged silence. Drummers broke it with a sputtering rhythm quickly joined by drones of wind and string.

Flames guttered from oil lamps along the walkway, bathing the cages in an amber glow. A Crasac sentry making his rounds came by and whacked the cage next to Bimji's with the shaft of his halberd. The man inside grunted. His rattling breath had been weakening all day. He would be dead before Bimji could even learn his name.

The guard lingered to urinate against a boulder. Bimji shoved a bent knee into one corner to straighten out the other leg and within a minute the bent leg cramped and he had to shift again. Comfort was a lost cause.

"Settle down in there or I'll smack you," said the guard. Drawing duty on what was perhaps the most pleasurable holiday in the Venep'o culture, no wonder he was in a foul mood. He glared at Bimji and moved on down the walkway.

As stars blazed through the veil of twilight, Bimji bobbed his head and chanted to cover the pain. When a feminine whisper penetrated his trance, Bimji thought it was a dream.

"Tarikel?" she said. "Are you Tarikel?"

Bimji opened his eyes. A woman stood before him, the diaphanous panels of her dress wafting in the warm breeze.

"Tarikel is dead," said Bimji.

"You're certain?" said the woman.

Bimji glared at her, his foggy mind not comprehending why a Venep'o celebrant would be seeking a Nalki prisoner.

"Why do you care?" said Bimji. It hurt to keep his scratched and parched eyes open so he closed them.

"My name is Teo," she said. "We came to free Tarikel. My comrades wait in the fields."

"Don't be foolish," said Bimji. "This is the Alar's Temple. There are garrisons here. Crasacs, Cuerti."

"We know," said Teo, looking down the ranks of cages. "Where is Tarikel kept?"

"You're too late," said Bimji. "They dragged his carcass out to the jackals days ago."

Teo's posture sank. "Paoala will be crushed."

"You know of Paoala?" said Bimji, eyes flashing open. "She survived?"

Teo pressed her face against the bars of the cage. "Are you the one called Bimji?"

Bimji re-opened his eyes at the sound of his name. This Teo dressed like a local concubine, one of the many allowed into the Temple grounds to partake in the festivities surrounding this eve of Pasemani's birth. Though her diction was nearly perfect, a slight clipping of her vowels gave away her Sesep'o origin.

"Paoala came to us a week ago," said Teo. "She told us what happened in Siklaa. And that you... you were with them."

"Who are you?" said Bimji. "You're... Sesep'o."

"Cadre," said Teo, who seemed annoyed to have to admit it.

"You shouldn't linger," said Bimji. "Go... or they'll put you in a cage like me."

"Not tonight, they won't," said Teo. "Six long bows cover us as we speak. The Cuerti are busy up the hill chewing aramis with Pasemani and having their visions. Only the sentries are clear of mind tonight and we have them marked for death."

"One guard just passed," said Bimji.

"His next pass will be his last," said Teo. She fiddled with the latch to the cage. Bimji noticed specks of blood dappling her dress.

"Don't waste your lives on the likes of me," said Bimji. "I'm already half-dead. Save yourselves. Go."

"You seem lively enough to me," said Teo.

"I only ask a favor," said Bimji. "There is an Urep'o woman who lives near Sinta. Her name is Lizbet. Tell her... and her children... that you saw me. That my soul will be with them."

"Tell them yourself," said Teo. "You're coming with us."

"You don't understand," said Bimji. "My legs are ruined. I've been fed poisons that burn my lungs and make my eyes bleed. I'm drowning inside."

"You're delirious," said Teo. "Whatever's wrong with you, we can heal. Particularly, if you know something about those weapons you used in the gorge. Where did they come from?"

Bimji recognized the line of questioning that his torturers had inflicted on him for days on end. His head cleared as if his sinuses had been flooded with pungent spice. His mind swam with suspicion. This Teo was one of them. They were just trying a new tack.

"You're a Cra lover, aren't you?" said Bimji.

"What are you talking about?"

"You work for the Alar."

"Never," said Teo. She jammed a pointy blade into the hasp and pried it off. The cage door popped open. "Come."

Bimji shoved himself against the back corner of the cage. "I'm not leaving."

"Come! It should be obvious I am no Venep'o, nor a sympathizer."

"What animal... what animal sleeps behind waterfalls and eats the sky?" said Bimji. It was an old Nalki code phrase, used only within the innermost circles of the clans.

"A rijik, of course," said Teo, citing the rarest bird in Gi – a river swallow – without hesitation.

Gravel crunched under boot. The Crasac sentry had completed another circuit around the base of the temple hill. He came upon them before Teo could react. Bimji pulled the cage door closed and held it.

"Move along," said the sentry, striding up to her. "This area is closed to guests."

A group of celebrants spilled down the hillside, weaving and stumbling arm-in-arm towards the garrisons, obviously under the influence of aramis. The revelers included a pair of Cuasar cavalry officers, still wearing their spurs.

"Look, some little whore has discovered our menagerie," said one of the Cuasars. "She had better not be feeding them."

"Be careful, our pets bite," said the other Cuasar. Their female companions giggled.

"Come, join us," said the first, grasping Teo's wrist. "We'll show you how why Pasemani is the god of pleasure."

Teo wriggled free. "I'm spoken for," she said.

"By whom? This man?" said the first officer, referring to the sentry. "He's on duty."

Out of the shadows flew six arrows, each precise and deadly. The two Cuasars fell with barely a gasp.

"Don't you two even squeak!" hissed Teo to the concubines. "Or you'll bleed in the dirt with your boyfriends."

She threw open the cage door and helped Bimji out. Every joint and articulation in Bimji's body felt stuck with a knife. Teo took his arm over her shoulder and fled with him into the night.
Chapter 9: Civilized

Miles' panic grew with every step he took father from his car. The bars on his phone dwindled to none; the radio signal degenerated into a quivery static. He had hoped the track would widen or lead him to a paved road, but it remained indistinct as he descended and crossed no other paths.

Miles was tempted to return to his car and hunker down before darkness fell, but the fear of spending another night alone on those creepy moors made him press on in hopes of finding some semblance of civilization, some sign that that he wasn't alone in this world.

Now he knew why lost kids never hugged trees.

The path plummeted, angling close to a crystalline brook bedded with pale sand and studded with pink and beige boulders. Miles was in no mood to appreciate its beauty.

"What an idiot!" he said out loud. "You shoulda called the police, the fire department, anyone. But no, you had to handle it yourself."

Could he be faulted for not expecting a mere rock to send him into exile?

Something flashed high atop a ridge, startling Miles, making him stumble. He squinted through the trees and spotted something squat with something shiny on the roof. Why hadn't he noticed it before? What was it, a cell tower? Approach lights for an airport? It flashed again, many times, in a stuttering pattern that varied in brightness and breadth.

Relief bloomed deep in his breast. He was not as alone as he had feared. Now he had a beacon to follow.

He made a bee-line towards the tower, veering off the path down to the brook. He hopped from stone to wobbly stone to cross it. The opposite bank was blocked by a cordon of brambles with tightly woven branches. They resisted his attempts to breach them. He kept trying until, exhausted, he gave up and crossed back over to the path. Maybe downstream he would find a path already blazed.

He hurtled on, almost ignoring a patch of stumps and brush piles—signs of recent logging. Human footprints in the mud and twin indentations from the wheels of a vehicle made his heart surge anew. Now he was getting somewhere.

The human prints were shoe-less, and the wheel tracks had no tread and followed hoof prints. Could be someone roughing it off the grid—hippie homesteaders, maybe. The signs were enough, anyhow, to obviate the need to bust his butt trying to reach that flashing tower.

The muscles cramping his neck loosened. His breaths came easier as his worries shifted to matters fiscal and bureaucratic. He only had a little bit of cash and a Discover card in his wallet. He hadn't traveled out of the country before. He had no idea whether merchants in Canada even took Discover.

If they did, and there was an airport nearby, maybe he could buy a ticket home. Worse came to worse, he could have his mom wire up some cash, or better yet, book him a hotel room and buy him a ticket on-line.

If he was indeed out of the country, how would he explain his presence in country? He was hiking and got lost? What if he needed a passport to clear immigration? Maybe he would luck out and this place would turn out to be Maine.

Would the insurance cover the loss of his car? Good thing he paid extra for the comprehensive.

The track took a sharp curve around a grove of ancient oaky-looking trees to the head of a meadow dotted with sheep and goats and huge, shaggy cows. The grass flowed down to freshly plowed fields bordering a river, dotted regularly with little tufts of green. Across a causeway, the track joined another road, unpaved but much broader and it ran through a tight cluster of huts, some square, some round an all with thatched roofs. Miles' stomach lurched. Somehow, this did not look like British Columbia or Maine.

Miles stopped and listened. He heard wood being chopped with an axe, goats braying, a bell clanking intermittently. Nowhere in the aural ambiance could he detect the sound of a single internal combustion engine.

He continued down the road and found some people gathered at the junction of two briar fences. They—two men, one woman—interrupted their conversation to turn and stare at Mile as he approached. All were shortish, with dark hair, olive skin. One of the men wore a gauzy kerchief, or was it a veil? The woman ran her fingers lightly over the hilt of a machete strapped to her waist. Or was it a sword?

As Miles neared them he waved. "Hi!" he said. "I'm lost. Anyone speak English?" He forced a smile.

No one answered him. They just turned to each other and whispered, punctuating their deliberations with glances. Miles spied a motion across the fields. A man who had been plowing behind some oxen came jogging over.

Miles lingered until the awkwardness became intolerable. He pursed his lips, nodded and sidled away, continuing on towards the causeway.

His pulse pounded. Dew collected beneath his shirt. Where the hell was he?

Down at the causeway—a strip of blocky stones laid across the current—the man who had been plowing caught up with Miles.

"Arripu para grin?" said the man, curly locks and beard pouring from a headband and veil.

"Huh?" said Miles.

The man pulled down his veil, pointed to his eyes and then to Miles. "Arripu," he said. "Oca nay Lizbet."

"Sorry," said Miles. "I don't understand. What language is that?"

"Lizbet." The man took Miles' hand and tugged.

"Hey!" Miles yanked it back. "No touch," he said.

The man flicked his chin and pointed downstream. "Oca nay."

The man seemed earnest enough. Miles suspected he was only trying to help, so he followed downstream along a path tamped into the plowed earth. The soil was dry, clumpy, as if hadn't rained in weeks. Smoke permeated the air.

They passed countless rows of stubby stalks topped with dark green rosettes. White tubers protruded where the soil had been churned.

Over the next rise they reached the source of all the smoke: not a cook fire or a chimney as Miles had imagined, but a smoldering pile of blackened rubble. A man and woman raked through it. A small boy carried handfuls of dripping, wet leaves into the embers, reached down and dragged out a small, furry carcass.

Miles' escort stopped and engaged the people in subdued, sympathetic tones. The man with the rake stared vacantly at Miles. He looked haunted and weary.

They continued on to the edge of a village where a group of children of various ages stood warily, slings and pointy sticks at the ready. The man stopped and chatted with them. Miles noticed another half-burned hut with one wall collapsed, thatch spilling down. There seems to have been some trouble here. His nerves notched up another gear.

A little girl came up to Miles and gazed up at him. Her interest was serious and contemplative, the way an anthropologist might study an interesting tribal rite. She was a pretty little thing: dark curls and a bronzed face with unusual angles of chin and nose and cheekbone. She wore an oversized and extremely weathered burgundy dress, not much more elaborate than a pillowcase with armholes, muddy about the hem but carefully mended.

The man tapped his shoulder and pointed down the road. He wanted Miles to follow these children. The oldest boy kept nodding and taking sharp intakes of breath through his teeth. Some sort of signal. His eyes invoked no nonsense.

"Cho!" said the boy, flicking his chin.

A bump knocked Miles, off-guard, off his feet. The plow man had knocked his shoulder against Miles.' The older boy thrust out a hand to brace him, while the other children laughed. The plow man waggled his eyebrows at Miles and headed back to his fields.

The little girl took Miles' hand and they followed the older boy through the village and across another causeway. The valley widened. Fields now sprawled on both sides of the river.

From another cluster of huts, a dog with an odd, flattened snout and short, pointy ears ambled up to Miles and sniffed. At that point, if the mutt had reared up and spoken to him, Miles would have taken it in stride.

The older boy led them to a house with mossy thatch and eroded mud walls. A withered old man sat cross-legged in the dust, whittling a piece of hardwood with a hooked knife. Pieces of a crossbow lay strewn around him. He seemed spry, despite his skeletal appearance. He grinned as Miles approached.

"Hadya doo?" he said.

"Oh my God!" said Miles. "You speak English!"

The man's expression was as immutable as a stone.

"Listen, are there any larger towns nearby? Cities? I need to find... like minibus... or internet. You know internet? Or even a telephone that works. You know? Telephone?"

"Gudafta noon." said the old man.

Miles' looked at him and sighed. "That's all you know? Niceties?"

The old man clapped his hand over Miles' sneaker. He spoke gruffly to the children in their own tongue. The little girl jumped up and down, and the others chittered excitedly. The old turned back to Miles.

"You peregrin," he said. "Peregrin ... is for Lizvet." He swept his hand towards the children. "You go... Lizvet."

"Lizvet? What's that? A town?"

The old man did not answer. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgement from Miles. Not knowing what else he could do, Miles nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Take me to Lizvet."
Chapter 10: Lizbet

The children led Miles down what seemed to be a well-traveled road. They fanned out in an almost tactical formation, a boy with a sling walked ahead and alone. A girl and a boy flanked Miles, wielding their pointed sticks as if they expected tigers to leap from the shrubberies at any moment. The smallest girl clung to Miles' hand, while the oldest boy brought up the rear.

This felt like progress. At least when the falling sun finally fell he would not be stuck alone on some moor but among people—helpful, friendly people. At least he was out of the wilderness, travelling down a broad, sunlit road. He would have preferred to see a truck or at least a tractor go by, but beggars can't be choosers.

Until the boy with the sling waved back to the others and disappeared down an overgrown path.

"Where the heck is he going?" said Miles, peering down the trail that was more like a tunnel through a dark and swampy hell.

When the little girl tugged Miles towards the same path, he balked, looking longingly down the wide, open road.

"Can't we go that way?" he said.

The little girl dug her heels in and tried to drag him towards the shadows.

"Lizbet. Lizbet!" The older boy laid hands on his back and pushed him towards the side path.

Ignoring his deepest instincts, Miles went along with the children's will. They were very insistent, and besides, they had those sticks whittled to sharp points and fire-hardened. He figured he find his way back to this road if the Lizvet/Lizbet place didn't pan out.

Each step deeper into the dense canopy made Miles' stomach clench tighter, but the children's good cheer and calm confidence drew him onward. He hoped that this Lizbet place came with a roof and a bed and a hot meal. A satellite dish and an internet café might be too much to ask for, given he had yet to see any power lines.

He prayed for a nice paved road with taxi or minibus service that could haul him to a place that did have electricity, and he could take the next step towards extracting himself from this place, wherever it was, and however he had gotten there.

The trail brought them to a junction with several other paths below a stack of fractured, mossy ledges. He could hear but not see a waterfall trickling down somewhere behind a tangle of green. They walked straight into the bottom of a cliff and veered up a diagonal fracture in its face.

Halfway up, they switched back up another crack and emerged onto a sunny, little hanging valley that looked like it had been carved with an ice-cream scoop. It looked like a pocket version of Yosemite. Smooth granite walls curved up both sides and a peeling monolith of basalt towered over all. Fields advanced in tiers to either side of a dirt road leading to a group of houses and barns that looked less primitive than the huts down by the river, but far from the boom town Miles was hoping for.

"Lizbet?" said Miles.

The children expressed their affirmatives with a boisterous mix of pantomime and local lingo.

Miles opened a zipper in his pack and peeled off a Starburst for each of the kids. They held the little cubes in their palms, astonished. Miles had to demonstrate what they were by eating one himself. The little ones followed his lead, but Miles saw the older boy pocket his candy.

Someone in the fields paused to stare, before turning back to their work. Miles heard a faint tinkling sound coming from the huts.

Miles took a long, exasperated breath. He felt like going back to the other road. This one looked like it dead-ended at the end of the valley where the land began to rise. But the children seemed insistent on him having a closer look so he obliged them.

The tinkling grew louder as they climbed. It startled Miles to realize that this was not only music coming from a plucked instrument, but that he recognized the tune. This really got his heart thumping. He stepped up the pace. The little girl had to run to keep up.

The instrument sounded like a cross between a samisen and a mandolin. It plonked with no sustain whatsoever. It must have gut strings. The tune was one of those O'Carolan melodies that he could never tell apart. An O'Carolan melody never sounded sweeter.

Miles charged past the next terrace, reaching a set of crude barns being used as animal shelters. A sprawling, one-story house with a wide porch came into view. Its roof was shingled with weathered shakes instead of the thatch he had seen used everywhere else. A pair of yellow dogs, much like Rhodesian Ridgebacks, came running up, wagging tales belying their growls. The children deployed their sticks and kept them at bay.

A young man about Miles' age, maybe a bit younger, sat on the porch picking at a something that looked like an elongated mandolin. He had an odd way of playing, with double stops and drones, but no full chords.

He was tall and pale, with long dark hair pulled together and tied up with beaded string. He put down his instrument and hopped to his feet when he saw Miles. The children rushed over and spoke to him rapidly and excitedly. The young man looked on, stone-faced and nodding, and making that sound with his teeth that Miles had heard the older boy make. He turned to Miles.

"You speak English?" he said.

Miles felt a chill at the sound of own language. He hoped this guy knew more than the old man.

"You betcha!" said Miles.

"Mom!" The young man called into the house. "We got company."

The young man came over and held out his hand, palm facing the ground. Miles gave it a stare, then took the hand and shook it.

"I'm Tom," he said.

"Tum?" said Miles.

"Tom," he said elongating the vowel this time. "Tomas."

"I'm... Miles. You wouldn't happen to know how to... how to get to Connecticut from here, would you?"

"Kuhnetta what? Oh, wait... that's one of the fifty states, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It is," said Miles.

The young man grinned, revealing bright but misshapen teeth. "My mom made us memorize them."

"I take it...." said Miles. "This isn't... America... or anywhere near?"

"Nope," said the kid.

"Know how to get there?"

"You can't get there from here," said Tom. "You're a peregrin. You're here to stay."

"I'm a what?"

"Peregrin. That's Uncle Gennadi's word. But don't worry, you're not alone. My mom's one. So's Misty."

Another yellow dog joined the pack and stirred up a new round of snarling and barking.

"Better come up here before our dogs eat you," said Tom.

Miles climbed up onto the porch. The children started to follow, but Tom snapped at them in that other language, words rattling out like machine gun fire. They backed away, beaming and giggling. They little girl blew Miles a kiss. They turned and dashed en masse back to the cliffs.

A middle-aged woman limped out of the house, holding a steaming mug. A younger woman followed close behind. She yanked up a veil when she saw Miles.

"Well, will you look at that?" said the older woman. "Misty and I were just talking about all the nasty goings-on in Raacevo. Heard the Venep'o just got done with a big round-up of exiles. I wondered when some of y'all might come around. Um. You speak English?"

"Yeah," said Miles.

"You are coming from Raacevo, aren't you?" she said.

"Never heard of the place," said Miles.

"Really?" she said. "Where'd you come from, then?"

"Greymore," said Miles. "I'm from Greymore, Connecticut."

"Lookit his clothes!" drawled the younger woman. This one's a newbie alright."

"Well, what do you know?" said the older woman, fingering the logo patch on Miles' REI pack. She extended a calloused hand. "Name's Liz. This here's Misty, my wife. Would you like some tea?"
Chapter 11: The Vale

The women invited Miles onto the porch and sat him down on a wicker chair cushioned with a sheep skin. The chair was low slung and rickety, but it felt good to sit down after so many hours on his feet. The porch, easily the size of the rest of the house, had posts of tree trunks still retaining their bark. A double rail of split logs hemmed the creaky decking.

Misty went off to fetch some hot water for tea from a smaller structure holding a hearth and a clay oven. Liz lowered herself gingerly into another chair.

"Tom, go fetch your sister," said Liz.

"Where is she?" said Tom.

"How should I know? Check the barns. Maybe she's up in the meadows."

Miles struggled for something polite to say. "Nice farm you have here."

"Why thanks," said Liz. "It's a bit of a mess these days. We've been kind of bit shorthanded. Ellie's dad went missing about a month ago." She looked down. Her eyes moistened. "And it's not looking good."

"Sorry to hear," said Miles.

Misty returned with some bowls and a hot kettle. Liz reached for a basket and removed out a brown wad that looked something like a poorly digested cow patty.

"Just pull off a chunk and drop it in," said Liz. "The hot water goes over the top. Be prepared, though. The stuff has a kick to it."

Miles thought he spotted a withered frog leg in his bowl, but decided it must have been an odd-shaped leaf. He sloshed the water around in his bowl until a grayish-brown haze appeared.

Misty sat beside Liz on the giant chair and pulled down her veil so she can sip from her bowl. The dropped veil revealed a delicate nose and lips, like a porcelain doll. The faintest dusting of freckles set off her milky skin, blushed by the wind and the straps of her veil. Miles realized he was staring and averted his eyes.

"You can look at me," said Misty. "This veil is mainly for show."

"Pardon my asking but, are you all Muslim or something?" said Miles.

"What... because of these?" said Misty, tugging on her veil. "This is a whole 'nother custom. Here in Gi, men wear 'em too. Just shows that you're hitched to someone."

Misty and Liz looked at each other and smiled.

"Gi?" said Miles.

"The place you're at right now," said Liz.

"Where the... hell... is Gi?"

"Beats me," said Liz. "But you're here. Better get used to it."

"Um... I'm just passing through," said Miles.

Misty turned her head sprayed a mouthful of tea onto the decking.

Liz just smiled. "Really? Where are you headed?"

"Well... back to Connecticut," said Miles. "I've got work. And my rent's due on Monday."

Liz turned to Misty. "Remind you of anyone we know?"

"That was me, Miles," said Misty. "The way you're being. That was me a year ago when I came."

"How am I... being?"

"Let's not... start," said Liz, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "How about some food? You caught us between meals, but we might have some bits from lunch left over. You hungry?"

"Um .. sure," said Miles. His stomach had been groaning ever since he left the mountain.

"Hope you like beets," said Liz. "This season it's pretty much what we got. Our grain store's down to seed stock now. But the rains should be coming soon."

"I'll make him a bowl," said Misty, skipping off back to the cook shack.

"That's okay," said Miles. "I don't... I don't care for beets."

Misty paused, but Liz waved her on. "Make him a bowl, anyway. These are not the beets you know. They're almost as sweet as yams here. And they come in all colors – black and white and red and yellow and all kinds of stripy ones. You'd better get use to them because they're about all there is to eat in the dry season. We make 'em with ramps and hot peppers. Just pretend they're potatoes and you'll be fine."

"Ramps?"

"Little oniony, garlicky things that grow wild here. They kind of look like baby leeks. They pack some heat, too."

Misty returned with a bowl of black and yellow beet chunks in a gooey, pungent sauce. Several hunks of cracker-like flat bread were tucked along the side. Miles ate with his fingers and it tasted nothing like those pickled purple things his mom would fish from jars.

Liz went on and on about the farm and her goats and trapping. She told him about the frigid and crystalline spring water that tasted so wonderful but made bathing such an ordeal. She told him about the men she had lost over the years, the babies and children who had died. How it was a hard life, but a good life.

Liz's face had the quality of someone's favorite bomber jacket, tanned and creased and scarred. From her face alone, Miles figured she might be pushing 50, though she had the hair of a much younger woman, wavy, honey-blonde hair only lightly touched with gray.

She spoke English like an American who had spent too much time abroad. Her inflections reminded Miles of a girl he knew in middle school whose family moved to Prague. He caught up with her again when she came back to the States for college to find the edges of her vowels smudged by time and distance.

"Pardon my asking," said Miles. "But are you two... married?"

Misty giggled.

"A marriage of convenience, you might say," said Liz. "Makes things easier for Misty. Being a young woman, in these villages here, can be a real pain in the ass. Being veiled takes some of the pressure off."

"She don't love me." Misty feigned a pout.

"Not true," said Liz. "I love her bunches. Like one of my own kids."

"I see," said Miles. His brain was feeling frazzled.

Misty picked up the instrument that Tom had been playing. It looked like an oversized mandolin, with friction tuners and several drone strings that passed diagonally above the others. She plucked away, sketching the outlines of yet another tune that sounded vaguely familiar.

"Geographically speaking," said Miles. "Where is Gi?" Miles took a sip of tea. It tasted like clam broth and made the inside of his mouth tingle.

"We're north of Venen," said Liz. "That's about all I know."

"Venen? Never heard of it," said Miles.

"Don't suppose you would have," said Liz.

"When those kids told me they wanted to take me to Lizbet, I thought Lizbet was a place," said Miles.

"Most definitely," said Misty. "Around here, Liz qualifies as a destination."

"My ass is certainly getting large enough," said Liz.

"Shady Grove," said Miles.

"Beg your pardon?" said Liz.

"That song she's playing. It's Shady Grove," said Miles.

"That's right," said Misty, and she dug in and played a break off the melody, letting the drone strings drone.

"The villagers know we help peregrins," said Liz. "That's why they brought you to us. We're all peregrins ourselves, after all."

"Peregrins?" said Miles.

"Means foreigner," said Liz. "A special kind of foreigner. They don't dare call the Venep'o that."

"You've lost me," said Miles.

"The Venep'o run this place," explained Misty.

"Think they do, anyway," said Liz. "They invaded about ten years back and have been trying to build up colonies ever since. The Nalkies don't make it easy. Sometimes I think if we just let them have their little colonies they would leave us alone."

The potent tea rejuvenated Miles and allowed his impatience to over-ride his fatigue.

"Listen... thanks for the food and all. But the sun's getting kind of low. I'd like to get to the nearest town before nightfall. What was that city you mentioned?"

"Raacevo?" said Liz. "There's no way you're getting there before night fall. And besides, Raacevo's not a place you want to be right now. It's bad news for any peregrin, particularly a newbie like you."

"I'll be fine," said Miles. "I'll find a phone, call the consulate. Report my passport missing."

Liz and Misty looked at each other.

"How cute," said Misty. "He's in denial."

"This is 2010," said Miles. "Can't be that hard for a guy to get home. I don't care where this place is. I've got a credit card. Driver's license. Even had bars on my phone." Miles pulled out his old school Nokia and turned it on.

"My Lord, will you look at that," said Liz.

Five tones rang out. Lights flickered on. "I had two bars before," said Miles. "Up in the hills." His nerves were kicking up again, assisted by the tea.

"Mind if I have a look?" said Liz.

Miles handed her the phone and rummaged in the pack for his little radio.

Liz rotated it in her palm. "Golly, it's just like Buck Rogers," she said. "Or was it Dick Tracy had one of these?"

"Before my time," said Misty, shrugging. "But I used to have one of those. A Motorola."

"Ain't much use here," said Liz. "Good for cracking nuts, maybe."

"But I had bars," said Miles. "I even called my mom. And... I could pick up radio stations." He turned on his pocket radio. Static sizzled out of the tiny speaker. He pressed the search button. The tuner scanned every frequency and locked on none.

"It was working before," said Miles. The tea was making him agitated, his brain accelerating beyond his ability to keep his panic in check.

"Lookit him. He's turning all purple," said Misty.

"We should have watered down his tea a bit," said Liz. "I forget what those toads do to some folks first time they drink 'em."

"Didn't bother me none," said Misty.

"Well Misty, that must mean you're special," said Liz. "You've got Gi in your blood. Either that, or you're a tolerant crackhead."

"I think I need to lie down," said Miles, as the walls began to shimmy, and spasms rippled through his belly.

Liz looked at Misty. "How's the goat shed these days?"

"Not too stinky," said Misty. "It's been what—three months? Since the goats went to the upper pastures?"

"Tell you what, Miles," said Liz. "We'll give you a roof and two meals a day as long as you pull your weight. We've got a lot of chores we can't get done on our own around here. We could use a little extra help."

"Thank you, but... no," said Miles, getting up. "I'm not staying here." He flung his pack on. "It's been great. I appreciate the hospitality, but... just point me towards the nearest city."

"Sit down, Miles," said Liz. "I ain't letting you off this farm. Not tonight, anyway. The roads aren't safe."

"What do you mean? There's not even any cars on them."

"There's soldiers," said Misty."And it don't take much to provoke them. Just seeing a peregrin can set them off."

"And they shipped half the peregrins from Raacevo off to Venen, from what I hear," said Liz. "God knows what they're going to do to them."

The women's concern generated a rush of fear and uncertainty in Miles. He plopped back down on his chair.

"Tell you what," said Liz. "Stay a couple days. We'll get you up to speed. We won't force you to stay. But Misty and I both know what it's like to be a stranger in a stranger land. We can make the transition easier for you."

Miles looked down the lane to the sea of treetops beyond the cliffs. One night of hospitality couldn't hurt, and then he could be on his way.

"Okay," he said. "I'll take you up on that."

"Boy's got some smidgeon of sense in him," said Liz, smirking. "Knows better than to go get himself impaled by Cuasars, anyway."

"Cuasars?"

"Let's get some meat into you," said Liz. "You still look like you're running on fumes. Can't have a guest passing out on my own porch. Misty, stoke up the fire."
Chapter 12: Work for Breakfast

Slats of morning light sifted through vertical boards. Miles, awakening from a fitful sleep, stared, shivering from his thin cushion of burlap-covered straw. The musk of goats was thick in the air. In his dreams, he had been back in his apartment, calling the super about the strange smell.

A girl poked her face around the door of the shed. "Morning, Mr. Miles. Welcome to the farm."

This must be Ellie. She spoke with the same queer accent as Tom. Her skin and hair were darker but she had her mother's piercing, laughing eyes and wavy hair, streaked and bleached by the sun. She had to be younger than Miles, but she had lines crinkling her eyes, and her hands were callused and scarred.

"Mom wants me to get you started on chores."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Miles. "I didn't sleep very well." He pulled his blanket closer.

"Don't matter," said Ellie. "Still gotta work for your breakfast, eh?"

"What's for breakfast?"

"You'll see. After chores."

Miles hauled himself up. His clothes clung to him, the same khakis and dress shirt he had worn to work what felt like weeks ago, but was only a couple of days. What he would do for a change of underwear.

"Don't worry... Mom said to give you an easy job at first. All you gotta do is shell some beans."

She led Miles out into the dry lane that slashed through the hodgepodge of animal shelters and sheds clustered between the ploughed terraces below and the meadows above. Vines with blossoms grew along every border, shedding a spicy sweet aroma that helped expunge the smell of goat from his nostrils.

Misty stood at a crude table behind a shed that seemed to be used only for cooking. A cauldron bubbled on the coals, but so far seemed only to contain water. Miles' stomach twinged. He had never felt so hungry and so far from a snack.

Misty worked quickly shucking beans like over-sized limas, tossing the hulls into a basket and the beans into a bowl. Her veil hung low over her neck and she made no attempt to conceal herself this time.

Ellie grabbed a bucket of bean pods from a mud walled silo and dumped them on the before in front of Miles.

"Sorry about the stink in that shed," said Misty. "We'll get it aired out real good today."

"No need," said Miles. "I'm heading out."

"Say what?"

"I'm going to that city... what's it called?"

"Did you not hear what Liz said last night?"

"What's that?"

"Raacevo's not safe right now, especially for someone who looks like you. Cuasars've been loppin' off heads these days. One look at your pale face and—"

"What the hell's a Cuasar?"

"Horse men... from Venen. There's a whole passel of them camped out in the center of town, from what we hear."

"Horse men? What are they, Mongols?"

"Close," said Misty. "They sure act like Genghis Khans, sometimes."

Miles' stomach fluttered. "This is too weird. So what am I supposed to do?"

"Stick around," said Misty. "This is the best place for you to be right now."

"I can't," said Miles, sweat beading beneath his shirt. "I have to get back. I've got a job to go to."

Misty looked at him with something akin to pity.

"Denial," said Misty. "It's natural. Happened to me, too. Took me months to get adjusted."

"How did you end up here?" said Miles.

Misty leaned back and took a long breath. "A... vision... brought me. I was campin' with some friends. Backpack fulla beer. We had hiked in a little ways and set up in a no campin' zone. Three couples. My boyfriend Jimmy and some friends from high school. Just... getting back together on a weekend like we do on occasion. We just got done eating some weenies we had roasted and I went off to pee. I guess I went a little too far off the trail. It was dark. I walked until I saw a light. Thought it was the campfire, but I didn't hear no voices. I went closer and ... this thing... I couldn't believe it... it had colors like a kaleidoscope. There was pictures inside it... sunshine on bushes... a river flowing by... like a vision. I yelled for my friends. But I got too close and it started pulling on me. Sucked me in. Then these people on the other side grabbed me tied something over my head. Next thing I know I was in Raacevo, wandering the streets. Some people brought me to this mice old man named Gennadi. That's where Liz and Bimji found me.

Miles had stopped shucking and stood staring at Misty. "No shit?" He fumbled a bean pod. It crumbled and spilled its beans onto the dirt. A dog ran up, snatched one and ran away. Miles stuck a dry bean in his mouth. It was tough and chewy – tasted a bit like raw potato.

"Don't eat 'em dry," said Misty. "They'll give you a tummy ache."

"I'm starving," said Miles.

"How're those beans coming along?" said Liz, hobbling across the porch.

"They're comin,'" said Misty.

"How about you Liz? How'd you get here?" said Miles.

"Here? You mean Gi?" said Liz.

Miles nodded.

"A little fairy brought me," she said. "She clicked her heels and sprinkled pixie dust on my butt." She winced and groaned as she hauled her leg down the porch steps.

"You okay?" said Miles. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"S'nothing," said Liz. "Just my hip. Old injury. But I'll take it to my dying day."

Liz pried the lid off a barrel, and scooped out a large clump of yellow powder with a split gourd.

"Whadya you say Misty? He qualify for breakfast?"

"He's an awful slow shucker," said Misty. "Least he tries."

"Make mine over easy," said Miles. "Bacon on the side."

"Eggs? He thinks he's getting eggs?" Liz dumped the yellow clump into the boiling cauldron and broke it up with a stick. "Not with those filthy, murdering dogs of ours."

"Why? What's on the menu?"

"Same as every day," said Liz. "Porridge and beans."

***

Miles knelt beside a clay cistern and scrubbed at the sticky residue in the bottom of his bowl with a clump of knotted vines, rinsing it from a spigot, and turned it over in the gravel. He did the same for the other spoons and bowls stacked on the ground.

When he was done, he turned to find Liz watching him. "This one might be a keeper, folks," said Liz. "Pulls his weight without needing a whip. What do you say Mist, should we keep him around?"

"He says he's leaving, today," said Misty, as she wiped the table. Ellie and Tom were off in the corner, fiddling with loops of wire that looked like rabbit snares.

"Oh yeah? Where does he think he's going?"

"Raacevo," said Miles.

"Tut. You'd never make it," said Liz.

"I can handle myself," said Miles. "I've been to some rough places. Used to play in neo-punk bands. You should have seen some of these dives – Bridgeport... New Haven... the Bronx even."

"This boy has no clue, does he?" said Liz.

"He don't know any better, Liz," said Misty. "He just got here."

"I mean... the city... must have buses or something at least. Right?" said Miles.

"Ain't no cars in all of Gi," said Misty.

"Oh yes there is," said Miles, righteously. "I've got my car parked up in the hills."

Misty and Liz looked at each other.

"You drove here?" said Liz.

"Not exactly," said Miles. "But I was inside my car when I came here."

Liz leaned close to Misty and whispered something.

"I am not delusional!" said Miles. "I have a red Toyota Prius up in the mountains."

"Miles," said Liz, gently. "Coming here is traumatic for all of us peregrins. Certainly was for me. And I didn't have a soft landing like you... a place where I had time to adjust and people to take care of me. Stick around with us... least another day. Learn what you're up against before you go traipsing off."

Misty and the others watched to see how he would respond. Miles felt all torn up inside. The anxiety of being stuck so far from home and work roiled his gut. But the prospect of going off on his own again chilled him, and all those scare stories about Cuasars lopping off heads didn't help.

"Do I have to sleep in that... goat latrine?" said Miles.

"Miles, I told ya," said Misty. "We'll air it out. It'll be scads better by tonight."

"And... can I get a change of clothes?" said Miles.

Liz sized Miles up with her eyes. "What do you think, Tom?" she said. "He's a mite taller than you."

"I don't have much to spare," said Tom. "My old rags are shredded."

"What about... Dad's clothes?" said Ellie.

"True," said Liz, sighing. "Some of Bimji's stuff might fit him."
Chapter 13: Smoke in the Valley

Miles loped to the spring behind the house bearing a bundle of Bimji's old shirts and breeches. A grooved tree trunk, acting as a miniature aqueduct, carried a trickle off a ledge and spilled it into a sandy pool. Miles washed his hair with a wad of greasy soap. He swabbed his strategic bits with a soggy and cold wad of homespun.

The breeches were a tad short, the shirt a little too roomy. He wondered what had happened to their previous owner. The family seemed reluctant to talk about him. Raw grief, most likely, explained their reticence.

He scrubbed his slacks and dress shirt as best he could and laid it over the rocks to dry. Ellie and Misty came by with an armload of rabbit snares.

"You want lunch, you gotta work," said Misty.

"Trapping?" said Miles. "I don't think so."

"What's wrong?" she said. "You a vegetarian?"

"I like meat just fine," said Miles. "Just don't like it staring back at me with big brown eyes."

"Go see Liz," said Misty. "Maybe you can help her with the weeding."

Miles found Liz pushing a hand cart down the lane towards the fields. She paused by the goat shed and propped open the door.

"Phew!" she said. "You weren't kidding. This place is ripe."

"Dar I ask... what happened to the goats?"

"They're up in the high meadows," said Liz. "The lower pastures go to pot in the dry season. So Asao and Elio—Bimji's cousins—take turns watching them for us from a little cabin up in the hills. You'll meet them when you walk the trap lines with Misty."

"I don't do trap lines," said Miles.

"Oh no?" said Liz.

"Misty said I could help you weed."

Liz looked at him with bemusement. Miles was certain she was poised on the verge of challenging or mocking him.

"Sure," she said. "Why not? Work is work."

They trundled past the sheds down to the terraced fields.

"We'll be bringing the goats down soon," said Liz, her eyes scanning the fast-moving puffs of cloud overhead. "I feel the change of season coming. Wouldn't surprise me if it rains tonight."

Miles took over the wheel barrow from Liz and followed her across an expanse of crusted soil, dark and moist deep within the cracks to a tangled patch of green growing beside a stream. She poked around the hand cart and passed Miles a blade with a hooked tip, sharpened only on the inside curve.

"What is this?" said Miles.

"Pick a row and start weeding," she said, descending gingerly to the ground, stretching her bad leg behind her.

Miles saw no evidence of rows. He saw a tangle of at least three different kinds of plants growing with equal vigor.

"Which ones... are the weeds?" he said.

Liz smirked. "Watch me."

Her hands moved deftly, the blade skimming just beneath the soil through the roots of the plants with narrow-bladed leaves, avoiding the squatter plants with broad leaves. When she finished a section, she raked with her fingers, sweeping away the weeds and tossing them in the barrow.

"Voila," she said.

"Are those... beets?"

"Yup," said Liz.

"Oh joy," said Miles.

He knelt and gave it a try. He wasn't nearly as quick as Liz, and his blade claimed a few innocents at first, but he gradually acquired the knack and soon had a pile of weed carcasses accumulating beside him. As he worked along the row, he paused to admire the weed-free patches left in his wake. Not bad, he thought, for someone who had never gotten his hands dirty in a garden before.

The monotonous work helped him absorb the events of the last day, not that he could make any sense of what happened. He was tempted not to heed these women's warnings about Raacevo. For years his suburban mom had harangued him with scare stories about muggers in New York City. Yet that never dissuaded him from clubbing and gigging in some of the sketchiest parts of the city, with nary a mugging.

Miles' cell phone and radio gave him reason to hope. That conversation with his mother was no hallucination. This place was somehow connected with home, at least in places, like near his car. He wondered if he could get Misty and the kids to help him extract his Prius from the bog. Then he'd have some wheels to get about. Good thing he had filled the tank.

An hour passed, and then another. They had passed their blades through the entire garden and another upstream by the time the sun had peaked. Miles knees were aching and a blood blister had formed on his thumb. He kept looking towards Liz, hoping she'd call for a break. But as long as Liz kept at it, so would he. He didn't want her to think him soft.

Miles kept looking back towards the cook shack. A thin wisp of smoke curled up and bent with the wind. In his mind he had most definitely earned himself at least another meal. But Liz kept weeding and braiding little onion-like bulbs onto the bunch she had already collected.

A moan peeled from Miles' stomach, turning Liz's head.

"Oh my, was that you?" said Liz.

"Pardon me," said Miles.

"Finish these rows and we can head back. We'll hit some of the other gardens after lunch. Thanks for the help, I appreciate it. It's nice having another set of hands around."

Miles hustled through the next row. Though, still nowhere near as efficient as Liz, his skill had vastly improved from the hack job he had done earlier.

"Will you look at those clouds?" said Liz. "They're blowing in fast." She heaved an armload of weeds into the hand cart. "This'll do for now," said Liz. "Let's head up."

Miles took the handles of the cart and started back across the fields.

"So how long have you been here?" said Miles.

"Forever," said Liz. "Or so it seems."

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"A little fairy—"

"For real," said Miles.

"I'd rather not think about it," she said, with an edge to her voice.

Miles sensed her anxiety level rising. "No problem," he said. He changed the subject. "So what's for lunch, do you suppose? Don't say beets."

"Rabbit stew, if we're lucky," said Liz. "Ellie does up a nice one with ramps and greens. Otherwise, it's back to porridge and beans."

"Wasn't that what we had for breakfast?" said Miles.

"It's the end of dry season," said Liz. "The larder's kind of bare."

"Oh, what I'd give for a pizza right now," said Miles, sighing.

"Pizza?" said Liz. "Here one day, and you're already pining for pizza?"

"My staple," said Miles. "What can I say?"

Liz sat up. "Misty does this thing with goat cheese you might like," she said. "You're gonna have to wait till harvest, though. There's not much grain to spare from the seed stock."

"Thanks," said Miles. "But I'm heading down the street to Panarea's soon as I get back."

"Get back?" said Liz.

"That, and a hot fudge sundae from Carvel."

"Miles. You've only been here a day."

"Oh come on," said Miles. "There must be something you miss. Living out here in the boonies?"

"Not really," said Liz. "I got everything I need."

"No treat you crave but can't get?"

"You're a pest, Miles." Liz's eyes wandered up to the rocky pinnacle that loomed over the farm. "Salt licorice," she said. "I can hardly remember what it tastes like. Just that I liked it ... a lot."

She stopped and faced Miles. "I realize you're new, here. But you have to understand... there's no going back. Gi is forever. The quicker you get that into your head, the faster you'll adjust."

Her words had about as much effect on Miles' ambitions as his mother's warnings about the Bronx.

***

After a lunch of crackers and hare, Miles slipped away to his quarters, while Liz sorted out the afternoon chores with Misty and the kids.

Miles found sprigs of sweet pea and mint dangling from the rafters. They didn't do much for the stench other than add more complexity to the aroma. The morning's airing out hadn't done much either.

Miles found a whisk broom that looked like something a witch would ride and swept out more droppings and urine-tainted soil. Tom showed up just as he was thinking of settling in for a nap.

"Come on," said Tom. "You and me are going to go fix some walls."

Misty came out of a barn with two donkeys.

"What's Misty up to?" said Miles.

"She's going down to the woods," said Tom. "To fetch firewood."

"Walls it is," said Miles. He pushed the empty hand cart down the lane and they cut across to the stream just below the gardens Miles had weeded with Liz. Tom stopped beside a terrace wall that had collapsed at one corner, spilling soil onto the lower terrace.

"If we don't fix this, the rains will gully it up," said Tom. The clouds had socked in thick and had already begun to spit. Wind howled across the heights.

Miles helped him shovel out the breach until they had exposed the intact stonework. He and Tom and he rebuilt the wall stone by stone, tapping the flat slabs of limestone in place with a mallet. It was heavy work, but Miles preferred it to weeding.

When they were done, Miles went to the rill and cupped a palm full of water to his lips. It chilled his teeth and numbed his throat. As Tom rinsed out the bed of the cart, Miles pulled his cell phone out of his pack. The chimes drew Tom's attention.

"Still no bars," said Miles.

Tom came for a closer look. "It's... beautiful," he said. "Can I hold it?"

Miles snapped Tom's photo and showed him the display."

Tom dragged a muddy, dripping finger over the screen and keypad.

"Don't get it wet!" Miles snatched it back. He turned it off and slipped it back into his pack. "Gotta save the battery."

"You have to show this to Ellie," said Tom. "Would you?"

"Of course," said Miles. He slipped the phone back in his pack and pulled out the radio.

"What's that?"

"It plays music and talk," said Miles. "Doesn't seem to work here, though."

Miles turned it on and pressed scan. Numbers cycled rapidly through the LCD and kept cycling over the entire range of frequencies – same as what happened when he tried it that morning and the night before.

But then it locked on a frequency. A faint, scratchy signal came through. "WBZ news time 7:32. Stay tuned for traffic on the three's." Miles lurched to his feet. The signal disappeared. He tried twisting and turning every which way, but could not get it back.

"Did you hear that?" he said, seeking confirmation that he hadn't imagined it.

"Yes," said Tom. "That man. What does he say?"

WBZ was no station Miles recognized from Greymore. But the five tone jingle rang a bell. Could it be one of those ionosphere-bounced signals he received only at night, like those Francophone hockey broadcasts from Quebec?

"Do that again," said Tom.

"Can't," said Miles. "I lost it."

***

A steady drizzle sifted down. Miles left Tom with the hand cart and dragged himself back to the goat shed. He found his dress shirt and slacks laying dry and neatly folded on the bed. Someone had left a candle on a crate but nothing to light it with. He checked his pillow for a chocolate. No dice.

Miles slid the door shut and peeled off his sweaty shirt and dusty pants and tossed them in a corner. He put his own clothes aside and changed into a clean set of hand-me-downs, including an undergarment that looked like a cross between a loin cloth and a miniskirt. The pants were baggy at the waist and thighs. The shirt was full of holes and way too short in the sleeves, but at least it was clean and soft as cotton against his skin.

Mile stepped outside for some fresh air. His emergence made Ellie freeze in the middle of the lane, her eyes wide, chest heaving. She clutched her chest.

"Those clothes!" she said. "You looked like Papa standing there."

"So... what ever happened to your dad?" said Miles.

"We don't know for sure," said Ellie. "He was doing things with Nalkies."

"With what?"

"Rebels," said Ellie. "He told mom he'd quit. But I guess not. He went off to market and never came back."

"Sorry to hear that," said Miles.

"Tom said you made his picture," said Ellie. "Can you... make mine?"

"Um... sure," said Miles. "The light's getting a bit low, but it should be okay."

He went in and fetched the phone from the pack, turned it on.

The coverage indicator flickered.

"Whoa!"

Ellie leaned closer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Miles. "It just... looked like I had coverage for a second."

He snapped a dim photo of Ellie, her features lost in shadow, but it pleased her just as well.

Misty came up from the lower terraces leading two donkeys loaded with kindling. "What're y'all up to?" she said.

"Pictures," said Ellie.

"Misty! You won't believe this, but I had a bar on my phone," said Miles.

"A... bar?"

"Not as strong as by my car, but it was there. I saw it."

"Bars on your cell phone?" She paused and cocked her head. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No," said Miles, earnestly. "Not at all."

"Well, ain't that something," Misty said. She slapped the donkeys' rumps and continued on.

"Misty. This means... we can call for help."

She crinkled her brow at him. "Come on up, you two. Dinner should be ready," she said, leaving Miles staring blankly at Ellie.

"Thanks... for showing me," said Ellie.

Miles strolled with Ellie back to the house. Tom was sitting on the porch playing something strange on the mandolin. The music was nothing like Miles had ever heard: notes bent to the queerest microtones, a rhythm that stuttered and stalled and started up again.

As usual, hearing any kind of music played by others made Miles miss being in a band. He sat across from Tom and watched him closely, strumming his fingers in time on a loose strand of wicker.

"You look like you want to play," said Tom, handing over the instrument.

Liz barged out of the house and seized the mandolin out of Miles' hands before he could pluck a single note. "Enough," she said. "Got myself a raging headache." She put the instrument down on a woodpile and continued on to the cook shack with a kettle to put on the hearth.

Halfway there, she stopped abruptly. "My God!" She stared past the terraces, into the valley.

Columns of black smoke rose beyond the trees from the cleft that held the river and the village that Miles had passed through on the way here.

"That's Sinta," said Liz.

"Not again," said Tom. "They burned a hut down just the other day."

"This ain't a hut, Tom," said Liz. "It's gotta be the whole damn village."

They all went to the edge of the porch and watched black pillars twine above the treetops. More smoke plumes appeared upstream.

"Xama, too," said Ellie, crossing the porch with an armload of bowls.

The dogs were agitated. They ran up and down the lane, snapping and snarling at anything and nothing. Miles shifted his leg behind the rail.

"Don't worry," said Misty. "They don't dare come up here."

"They just might," said Tom, stepping off the porch into the drizzle. He stared at the columns of smoke, his face grim. "This latest batch of Cuasars is nasty."

"I meant the dogs," said Misty.

"Ellie, go easy on the portions," said Liz. "Something tells me we're having company tonight."

Ellie passed out bowls containing a lump of gelatinous porridge with bits of roasted meat and onion embedded. It wiggled in a disturbing way in Miles' mouth, but tasted wonderful. He would have gladly taken a second helping had Liz not slapped a lid over the cauldron and hauled it aside.

Tom wolfed his portion down in a few gulps and shoved the empty bowl towards his sister. He got up and trotted off the porch.

"Where's he going?" said Liz, frowning.

Miles leaned back in his chair to see Tom sprinting down the lane. He ducked into the goat shed. Miles had left his pack on the bed. Was Tom after his camera?

"Ellie, go see what he's up to," said Liz.

"Mom... I just filled my bowl."

"I'll go," said Miles. He had no reason to think that Tom would tamper with his stuff, but he would feel better securing his only connections to the world he left behind.

Miles stepped off the porch. A gentle but insistent rain spattered his face.

***

Outside the shed, Miles heard digging and scraping within. Clods of earth and goat dung came rolling beneath the door.

"Knock, knock?" he said.

The digging ceased. "Miles? You alone?"

"Yeah."

"Come on in, but shut the door behind you."

Miles ducked inside. Tom had dug a hole in the corner of the shed under what had been a manure pile.

Miles swung his pack over one shoulder. He brushed some stray bits of dirt from his bedding. "Do I dare ask what you're digging up?"

Tom extricated a wooden crate, long enough but too narrow to be a child's coffin.

"Don't tell my mom I have this," said Tom.

He pried open the lid and lifted out a clanking canvas-wrapped bundle. Little fingers of brass tinkled out from a rip in the oiled canvas.

"Bullets?" said Miles.

"From your world," said Tom. "You ever use one of these?" He un-wrapped the bundle to reveal a battered and dingy assault rifle.

"Never," said Miles. Guns had always frightened him.

Tom loaded the magazine. It looked to Miles like he knew what he was doing.

Whistles and voices hailed from the cliffs. Tom went to the door, taking care not to show the weapon.

"Villagers," said Tom.

Miles stepped around him, wary of the loaded rifle. A line of people were coming up the lane. Several bore a man on a makeshift litter. Others assisted a woman whose was wrapped in bloodstained rags.

Ellie came running by. "Tom! Miles! Come help!"

Tom shoved the crate back in the hole and kicked the dirt back over it.

"I'm sticking the gun under your bed," whispered Tom. "Don't tell anyone."

***

The rain picked up as the twilight deepened. Fourteen refugees now crowded the porch. Some picked at globs of leftover porridge. Others trembled too much to partake.

Ellie and Liz tended to a man laid out on the floor. Miles' bones ached looking at him. Blood pooled beneath the man's hip. His face seemed molded from wax. The man still breathed, but probably not for long.

Tom had taken aside four of the most able-bodied refugees. Miles gathered that he wanted them to be sentries.

"You too, Miles," said Tom.

"What's that?"

"You're coming with us down to the cliffs."

"Um, I'm probably better suited to helping out here, actually."

"You're coming with us," said Tom.

Misty emerged from the main house bearing weapons: two longbows, a crossbow and a broken-tipped sword. Tom slung the crossbow over his shoulder and started off.

"Come!" said Tom.

"Go on," said Misty. "Liz and Ellie have things under control here. I'll join y'all in a bit."

Reluctantly, Miles followed the ragtag patrol out into the rain. The boy who had led Miles to Lizbet's farm smiled and nodded at him.

Liz came to the rail. "Whatever you do, Tom, don't provoke them. They'll leave us alone if we mind our business. Don't give them reason to come up here."

"They've already got fourteen reasons to come after us," said Tom, without looking back. When they reached the goat shed, Tom handed his crossbow to Miles, along with a fistful of stubby looking arrows.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" said Miles.

"It's already loaded with two shots," said Tom. "The forward trigger releases the first bolt. The back trigger for the second."

"Let one of these folks have it," said Miles. "I've never handled one of these."

Tom ignored him. "To reload, just slide a bolt into the slot and pull back the lever on the bottom." He demonstrated how to hold it, placing Miles' left hand on a forward grip of oiled and polished wood.

"Who are we shooting at?" said Miles, hyperventilating.

"Nobody, I hope," said Tom.

He dashed into the shed and emerged with the assault rifle, swaddling rags over it to keep the rain off.

The rest of the group was already waiting down at the cliff edge. Another small group of stragglers made their way over the rim in the fading light. The bony old man Miles had met on his first day held up both palms in greeting as he passed Miles and headed on to the main house.

Tom spoke to his volunteers and had them disperse along the cliff top. He turned to Miles.

"You and me are going down the cliffs," he said.

"But it's getting dark," said Miles. His heart pattered like a small bird's.

"Don't worry," said Tom. "There's cover. We'll see them before they see us."

They started down the cleft. Miles hung back, a few steps behind Tom, breathing like a marathoner.

A cry arose from the trees below. Two figures ran across the open space below the cliffs, hoof beats pounding after them. Something snapped. One of the figures collapsed in the gravel. The other paused. Another crack and the second fell.

"Get down!" said Tom.

They ducked below an upended slab.

A horseman trotted out of the trees and looked over the fallen pair, writhing and moaning in the scree. Tom ripped the rags off his rifle and flipped a lever above the trigger. He raised the rifle to his cheek.

The rider squinted up at the cliff top, signaled for others in the trees behind him to stay back. He looked bulky in his saddle, wearing winged and flanged armor that made him look like an exotic insect.

"Cuerti!" hissed Tom. He pulled the trigger. It clicked, but failed to fire.

The rider bellowed to his companions and wheeled about, heading back for the trees.

"Damn, I forgot to load the chamber," said Tom. He jerked back another lever.

But the riders were gone. One victim whimpered. The other lay silent and still.
Chapter 14: Defense

Hoof beats receded down the forest path. Tom shouted in Giep'o up to the cliff top. Rescuers scrambled down the switchback to reach the fallen.

"Help me cover them," said Tom, panning the rag-swaddled rifle across the trees bounding the clearing below. Miles lifted his crossbow, hands shaking, keeping his fingers well away from any triggers lest he send a bolt into an innocent by accident.

The rescuers did not linger. They retrieved the two victims and rushed back up the ramp. Miles saw no hope for the villagers dangling limp in their arms. Shafts with dark fletching protruded from their backs.

The forest was still but for the spatter of rain on leaf and the swaying of trees in the wind. The night thickened and consumed all detail and shadow on the forest floor. Miles grew antsy.

"It's getting dark," he said. "Maybe we should go back."

"No," said Tom.

"But... wouldn't it be better to be up there with the others?"

"The cliffs block our view," said Tom. "This is the place to be. It's protected, and we have a clear shot at all who approach."

"But I can't see a damn thing," Miles said, squinting into the darkness.

"Don't need to," said Tom. "We'll hear their horses ... their armor."

Miles listened carefully to the night. For a long while, he heard nothing but frogs and the hiss of rain falling through the canopy. Rain trickled down his face. He was wet and tired and miserable.

Voices in the trees stirred him back alert. His heart thudded back into full panic mode. But it was just another wave of refugees, shouting and whistling as they approached the cliffs as if they expected them to be defended. Miles counted at least a dozen people file past, along with their donkeys and dogs.

"These folks are from Xama," said Tom. "Seems like the Venep'o sacked every village in the valley."

"Those soldiers," said Miles, "They coming back?"

"Oh, yeah," said Tom. "They'll be back."

Tom's ominous tone sent Miles' heart rate spiking yet again, but as the minutes passed, under the mesmerizing spell of the rain, Miles' adrenalin was no match for his fatigue. His head drooped against his chest. He nodded off, to be awakened by his own snore, and drifted off again, to be startled by the crossbow knocking against a ledge.

"Go on back then, if you're so pooped," said Tom.

"'S'alright," said Miles, drowsily. "I can... stay."

"You're no use to me snoozing," said Tom. "Go on up and get some rest."

Tom called up to the cliff top. Someone answered back tersely in Giep'o.

"Go on," said Tom. "Tell mom, not to worry. We've got things under control."

Miles hauled himself to his feet and plodded up the slant, sliding one palm against the cliff wall to keep himself from stepping off the sheer drop to his right. Wind blasted him when he reached the top, prompting spasms of shivers.

A figure stepped out from one of the makeshift rain shelters.

"Tom?" she said.

"No. It's Miles."

"Out for a stroll?" said Misty.

"Tom sent me up to get some sleep," said Miles.

"Sleep?" said Misty. "Now? How is that possible?"

"It's been a long day," said Miles.

"Well... if you're able to... the more power to you," said Misty. "Get it while you can, I guess." She put her hand on the crossbow. "I'll take this, if you don't mind."

"Be my guest," said Miles, handing over the weapon. "Are you all planning to stay out here all night?"

"I don't know," said Misty. "I just came to keep an eye on Tom for Liz. If things stay calm, maybe I can get him to come back up. I would think the dogs would suffice to warn us if the Cuasars come back. They're pretty riled up."

Miles lowered his voice. "Did you know he's got a gun?"

"He has a what?"

"A gun."

"Where did he get a gun?"

"I don't know. Raacevo?" said Miles.

"Fat chance of that," said Misty.

"Well... I'm gonna go get out of this rain before I drown. Take care," said Miles, trudging on towards the flicker of light up the lane.

"Sweet dreams," said Misty.

The rain fell in a fine and steady spray as Miles splashed up the lane. Puddles reflected the faint glimmer of a fire in the cook shack. Shadows delineated where the terraces ended and the outbuildings began. Miles pushed open the door of the goat shed to find the room reverberant with whispers and murmurs and sobs. Dark figures huddled on his bed and there seemed to be someone sprawled on the floor where Tom had done his digging. Someone greeted him in a language he couldn't understand.

Miles sighed and pulled the door closed.

He went on up to the main house. The porch, faintly illuminated by a single oil lamp, was crowded with more refugees. People sprawled over every flat area of the porch, on the table, under the table. Few slept. Some rocked and moaned as others tried to console them.

Miles stood awkwardly by the rail, seeking familiar faces, finding none. The fire in the cook shack flared. He felt drawn to it like a moth. He stepped off the porch and crossed through mud puddles, finding Liz crouched inside, stoking the fire with a stave.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Miles," she said, glancing. "How goes things on the Maginot line?"

"Quiet... for now," said Miles.

Miles slumped onto a split log bench. Liz had gotten the fire good and crackling. He dragged the bench closer. His dripping clothes made puddles in the packed clay.

Liz held her palms up to the fire and rubbed them. She watched Miles over her shoulder. "You look dazed, my boy," said Liz. "What's wrong?"

"I'm a little freaked right now," said Miles. "I watched two people die."

"Folks from Xama have been telling some horrific stories," said Liz. "They're lucky as many got away that did. But I wouldn't worry. This will all blow over. Always does. From time to time, the Cuasars come out of their garrison to quell the Nalkies. Just our bad luck they struck our neck of the woods this time around."

"Cuasars?" said Miles. "Tom called them Cuerti."

"Can't have been Cuerti," said Liz, scoffing. "That's the Alar's personal guard. Tom must have gotten a little over-excited."

"You don't think they're gonna come after us?" said Miles.

"No," said Liz, dragging a log into the embers. "They're probably already on their way back to their barracks. Cuasars have never bothered this farm. Their scouts pass through. We feed them well. We've given them no reason to trouble us."

"But why... those villages?"

"For show," said Liz. "To remind the Nalkies who's boss."

Miles wanted to feel reassured, but Liz's assessment of the situation did not harmonize with the way those two farmers were chased down and exterminated. That act had been more than bluster.

"You're sure you're alright?" said Liz. "You look ill."

"Just tired," said Miles. "And someone's sleeping in my bed."

"Hah, join the club," said Liz. "I have an entire family sleeping in mine."

Miles pulled off his shirt and wrung it out. The water sizzled on the hot stones surrounding the hearth. His shirt began to steam.

The fire's warmth magnified Miles' drowsiness. He slumped lower on the bench. Nerves alone kept him conscious.

"You're zonked," said Liz. "No one's in Tom's little shack out back. Why don't you grab it while you can? I thought about sneaking back there myself, but there's no way I can sleep, with all that's going on." She winced as she straightened up out of her crouch.

The heat felt wonderful penetrating Miles' aching flesh. He was in no hurry to head back into the dampness, despite the promise of a soft bed.

"Thanks," he said. "But I think I'll hang here... dry out some more."

He lay down on the bench, facing the flames. Fire glow danced through his closed eyelids. He drifted off, disturbed only by a pillow of folded cloth inserted gently beneath his head.

***

The fire had dwindled back to feeble embers when Miles awoke. He found himself alone in the cook shack with the rain crashing down, runoff curtaining the periphery of the shelter, spattering the interior. The fronts of his clothes were crisp and dry, but his backside remained clammy.

Miles tossed in a few splits with light tinder to revive the fire. He got off the bench and sat on the hearth with his back to the building flames. The stones still retained some of their warmth.

Tom darted over from behind the main house bearing a bundle of rags.

"You're awake!" he said. "Good. We need you back at the cliffs. They spotted Crasacs spotted on the river road."

"That's nice," said Miles. "What the fuck's a Crasac?"

"Foot soldiers," said Tom. "Come on. We need everybody we can get. Mom's been telling the villagers to ignore me."

"I don't blame her... or them," said Miles. "It's raining awfully hard."

"You don't understand," said Tom. "If they sack the farm they'll kill you, too."

"But your mom says—"

"She's wrong," said Tom. "She doesn't know what Bimji was up to in Raacevo. I think this is all because of him."

Miles' stomach churned. He didn't know how much of it was hunger, how much was fear.

"I'm not cut out for this Tom," said Miles.

"Please!" said Tom. "If they see us make a stand, maybe they'll just go away. And if they don't... well, I have that gun."

Miles' jitters returned full-blown, destroying the peaceful aura conferred by his nap. His instincts made him want to side with Liz. But Tom had an intensity and righteousness in his eyes that was difficult to ignore. And he did have that gun.

Miles stretched and groaned. Every muscle ached, even his pinkies. He peeked into a cauldron that had been pulled aside out of the ashes. A crust of porridge lined the bottom, cracked a chunk off and took a bite.

"This stuff ain't bad like this." He broke off a few more chunks and stuffed them in his pocket.

"You coming?" said Tom.

"Sure," said Miles, half-heartedly.

Tom shoved a mass of greasy canvas into his arms.

"What's this for?" said Miles.

"Oil cloth," said Tom. "To keep the rain off. Come on. We need to get back down there before full daylight."

Miles tossed the oil cloth over his head, took a deep breath and followed Tom out into the rain. They ducked into a barn. Three dead villagers were arrayed neatly on the clay floor, with several of their kin keeping watch over them. Tom retrieved his rifle from an old man wearing a veil.

They hopped rivulets and dashed past the terraces to the top of the cliffs, where more tepee-like shelters had sprouted since the night before. Tom ducked his head into one near the head of the ramp.

"Any action?" said Tom.

"Nah, it's been quiet," said Ellie, emerging from the shelter looking groggy.

Tom's sister emerged from the shelter looking groggy.

"Give Miles the crossbow. You go on home," said Tom.

"What's that you have there?" said Ellie.

Tom turned to put his body between Ellie and the rifle.

"Never mind," said Tom. "You go on back to the house."

***

A keen-eyed woman wielding a longbow nearly as tall as her stood watch in the stone cleft at the switchback. Miles spoke to her briefly, and sent her back up to the cliff top.

Films of water sheathed the cliff face. The path collected trickles and funneled the runoff along a channel cut into the stone. The waterfall thundered unseen in its notch.

Tom tucked his oil cloth amongst the collapsed ledges and vertical flakes of delaminated stone that hemmed in three sides of their nook and crossed a broken branch underneath to support a makeshift canopy. He stuffed a wad of leaves into the barrel of the rifle and propped against a slab shaped like a shark fin.

"Help me make a wall," said Tom, stacking stones to block the opening of the nook. Miles put the crossbow down to assist, his back was still sore from hauling stone the day before. Once they had it waist high, they chinked the walls of the bunker with smaller chunks of stone, using handfuls of gritty mud as mortar.

Tom took Mile's oil cloth and overlapped it with his.

"There," said Tom. "Now we have a nice roof over out fighting place."

Miles stepped back on the ramp and looked askance at the little bunker they had made. "I don't like this," he said. "If someone attacks us, we'll be cornered. There's no escape route."

"Sure there is," said Tom. "Straight up the path."

"That's too exposed," said Miles. "They'd cut us down."

"It's not us who should worry about the fighting," said Tom. He grinned and patted the assault rifle leaning against a boulder inside the little bunker. "Have you seen what these can do?"

"Not firsthand," said Miles. "And I don't care to."

"It's okay," said Tom. "I have practiced in the mountains. I am very good with this."

"Where did you get that thing, anyway?" said Miles.

"From the barrows," said Tom. "Bimji would go there to meet with Nalkies and Sesep'o. There is a tomb with nobody dead inside, and weapons just like this. Mom doesn't know that Bimji was still involved with such things. He told her he gave it up. Please don't mention it to her."

"Who brought these here?" said Miles. "How?"

"I don't know how, but it was Sesep'o who brought them," said Tom. "They are people from another country who fight the Venep'o. They come to Gi to help the Nalkies."

"You ever meet any of these folks?" said Miles.

"No," said Tom. "But I have seen them."

The clouds brightened and the grey forest turned green again. A tree wiggled and dumped the reservoir of built-up water its leaves had collected. Miles clutched his crossbow tighter.

"Just the wind," said Tom. "Don't worry. We will know when they come. I have made certain of that."

Miles inhaled deeply, his eyes traveling from tree to tree. When nothing else moved, he settled back and tried to relax, digging a little groove in the floor of the bunker to channel the water away.

"So you've lived here all your life?" said Miles.

"Yup," said Tom, propping his legs on a stone the size of an ottoman.

"What about your mom?"

"She's not from here," said Tom. "She's a peregrin."

"Has she ever offered to take you back to where she's from... to meet relatives and such?"

"She's a peregrin," said Tom. "Peregrins don't go back."

"Well, someone had to go and get that gun of yours," said Miles. "No? Did it walk here all by itself?"

"Peregrins don't go back," said Tom. "That's all I know."

"But apparently, the Sesep'o do," said Miles, softly.

Something tinkled in the forest, a sound like dishes in a scullery.

Tom scrambled for the rifle, unplugging the wad of leaves stuck in the barrel. Miles tensed.

"What was that?"

"Trip wire rigged with crockery," said Tom. "I set it up as an alarm." He peered through a gap between the upright slabs protecting them.

"Could it have been an animal?" said Miles.

"Possible," said Tom.

Miles drew back from the opening. He stood up slowly and peeked over the top of a ledge. He could see the blood-clouded puddles where the two villages had fallen the night before and a wall of green broken only by trails leading back towards the river road.

A sizzle slid past his ear and cracked against the cliffs. He dropped to the floor of the bunker. A flurry of bolts clattered into and against the bunker and sliced through the oil cloth. Tom grunted and fumbled with his rifle. A blizzard of jangling crockery sounded from every trail below.

"Crasacs!" said Tom.

Miles wedged himself low in the backmost corner huffing like a Lamaze instructor. Tom breathed through his teeth. Blood trickled down the side of a slab.

"You alright?" said Miles.

"I'm hit," said Tom. "My stomach."

"Shit!" said Miles, scrambling to his feet. "Let's surrender. I'm surrendering."

"Stay in the bunker!" said Tom. "They'll kill us whether we surrender or not."

"What do we do?" said Miles, panicking.

Helmeted soldiers, with flapping, blue-daubed armor of wood and leather rushed the stone ramp.

Tom slid forward on his knees behind the tilted slab and let loose on full automatic.

Tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga-tug!

Sparks flew. Rocks splintered. Soldiers fell. The others halted, startled by the sound and its consequences. Arrows and bolts rained down from defenders on the cliff top.

Tom crumpled. A black shaft protruded low on his rib cage. He lifted the rifle to Miles.

"Here. You take it," he said. "I can't hold it. Hurts too much."

"But...." Miles had never handled anything more powerful than a BB gun before. Tom shoved the rifle into his hands as he collapsed

The Crasacs below had collected their senses and made another charge at the ramp. Miles poked the rifle through a slot, closed his eyes and clicked off a quick burst. The barrel jerked and smacked against the stone. He opened his eyes. Another Crasac had fallen, but the rest continued charging up the ramp, with sabers drawn.

A thousand volts girded Miles courage as bolts skidded across slabs past the bunker. He took more careful aim, and kept his eyes open this time.

Tugga-tugga-tugga-tug!

And again, until the cartridge was empty, and not a Crasac soldier remained standing on the ramp.

Defenders splashed down the ramp past Miles who stepped out of the bunker, dazed. Some carried Tom away up to the cliff top. Others pounced on the wounded Crasacs and finished them off with daggers, stripping them of their weapons.

When they were done, they dragged the dead off the ramp and into a rain-flooded ditch. They patted Miles and bumped shoulders with him as they returned to their posts on the cliff top.

Miles wondered why he didn't follow them. Instead he sat down in the bunker, staring alternately at the bloody pools Tom had left behind, at the dead Crasacs piled in the ditch and at the trees they had emerged from. He found a sack of bullets tucked into a crevice along with a spare cartridge. He fumbled with a latch on the hot rifle and swapped cartridges. He reloaded the empty as if it were second nature, as if he were born with an AK-47 in his hands.

***

After an hour or so, the rain began to slacken. Misty came down to the bunker.

"Liz sent me to fetch you," she said.

"I... I can't leave," said Miles, trembling. "What if they come back?"

"If they come, they're bringing more than they brought before. Liz says we should lay down arms. Especially... that one." She nodded towards the rifle.

"She knows about it?" said Miles.

"How could she not? It about thundered off the mountains."

"I'm not leaving," said Miles. "Tom said they'd kill us even if we surrender."

"Liz doesn't seem to think so," said Misty. "She thinks she can talk to them. I trust her judgment. She knows this place well."

"I'm staying right here," said Miles.

"Don't you want to come up and have some food?"

"I got food," he said patting the crusts of porridge in his pocket.

Misty sighed, and stared down to the cliff bottom to where the dead Crasacs lay.

"Oh Lordy... that's no way to bury someone."

"You go dig a hole," said Miles. "I'm sticking right here."

"Miles, you're not thinking straight," said Misty. "I think you're traumatized or something."

"I wanna stay."

"Gun or no gun, you can't hold off a whole army."

"I don't care."

"Jeez, Miles, you've really gone bonkers." Misty got up to leave.

"How's... Tom?" said Miles.

"Not so great," said Misty, pausing. "He's not bleeding as much. But he's messed up inside." She scuffed the ground with her foot. "Just so you know, Liz is livid about that gun. She gets a hold of it, she's gonna snap it in two. If Tom wasn't already dying, she'd kill him."

"He gonna be okay?"

"You wanna go see him?" said Misty.

"No," said Miles. "I'm staying right here."
Chapter 15: The Visitors

Miles kept the barrel of the rifle pointed through a slot between two slabs. He had a few degrees of wiggle room covering two of the paths merging at the base of the cliffs.

His senses ran full-bore, still reeling from the incident that felled Tom. He knew the feeling too well. In high school he had survived a car accident that killed his best friend's girlfriend as she sat unbuckled in the front seat. Jeremy took a slushy curve too fast driving home from a basketball game and rolled his Nissan into a swamp. Julia, ejected, smacked a red maple with her head and broke her neck. He remembered standing helpless over her, ankle deep in mud and ice, as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Hours later, back home and unscathed, he had sat up shaking in his dad's easy chair, watching the snow slant through the porch light. Tremors like those afflicted him now.

Miles wrapped his arms around the stock and closed his eyes, ears attuned to any jingle of crockery on Tom's trip wire. For an hour, at least, nothing stirred in the forest, not a bird, not a rodent, only the rain, weakened to intermittent spits and spurts, slapping against the crowns of the trees.

A whistle from the cliff top made him jump. The rifle would have perforated some trees if his finger hadn't slipped off the trigger guard. Ellie came skipping down the ramp with a gourd enmeshed in braided twine. A crossbow dangled from her shoulder.

"I've brought you some lunch," said Ellie. She didn't look at him, her eyes passing from the bloodstains on the boulders to the ditch full of dead Crasacs. Her brow was furled. Her eyes looked red.

"Thanks," said Miles. "But I'm not that hungry."

"Take it," she said. "There're so many people at the farm. Some of us might be skipping dinner."

"How's Tom doing?" said Miles.

Ellie kept her eyes fixed on the trees below. "Mom's with him. A healer from Xama made him a poultice, but the damage is inside. He doesn't look so bad right now, but they say these kinds of wounds get worse before they get better."

"Sorry to hear," said Miles.

"You don't have to stay down here, you know," said Ellie. "We have lookouts on the cliff."

Miles ignored her. Something had snapped in Miles during the attack. He felt rooted in place, compelled to remain in the bunker. He couldn't bear the thought of being bottled up on the farm, not knowing if or when any soldiers swarmed up the ramp. Here, he could see them coming, and do something about it.

"Mom's telling the refugees they should go into the hills, but many people are afraid to go."

"Why, what's up there?" said Miles.

"Meadows and mountains," said Ellie. "But our uplands are full of barrows. It's not a place where the living can be comfortable."

Ellie shuffled impatiently, her eyes still scanning the forest.

"You coming then?"

"No," said Miles.

"Then, I'll be going," said Ellie. "Mom says we can't take on any more refugees. There's just no place to put the ones that're there already, never mind feed them. I've already told the folks on the cliff. They'll do the talking if anyone else shows."

Ellie trotted back up the ramp, Miles looked down at the gourd she had left and let go of the rifle he had gripped so tight, he had cramped the muscles in his fingers. He popped the lid off to find bits of cracker and cheese along with some indeterminate pickled vegetables that he found in the bottom of the gourd. He nibbled at chunk of gamey, salty cheese.

Lunch and a brightening sky helped restore some of Miles' calm. He no longer expected to be assaulted from every tree. He found it hard to believe that he had killed several men and was quite ready to kill some more. In Greymore he had been barely brave enough to front a band. He was the type who ran from bar fights. Now here he was, Miles Pawluk, the champion of Lizbet's farm.

Some champion. He was already toying with the idea of slipping away with the gun and making his way back to the car. The isolation of the moors had become a plus, offering respite from the chaos and violence that had overtaken the farm. There, he could sit in his own car, listen to his radio. Maybe his phone would work and he could speak to someone from his own world, someone who care about him and could help him find a way out of this hell hole.

Miles shut his eyes and listened for the tinkle of crockery.

***

No clanking forewarned the arrival of the voices this time. Miles wasn't sure at first that they were real. Voices in his head were nothing new. He had seen a doctor once about it, concerned it might be the beginnings of schizophrenia or after-effects of drug abuse.

But the voices he heard now were nothing he could conjure. They varied in amplitude and tone. They had direction. No doubt, they were external.

They spoke loudly, showing no desire for stealth, no fear of being discovered. Miles couldn't distinguish any words yet, but the rhythms and inflections of the speech sounded an awful lot like English.

He spotted their source before they spotted him, standing over the gully where the bodies of the slain soldiers had been deposited. They had come down a path along the cliff base that Tom had neglected to booby-trap.

Miles released the safety on his weapon and chambered a round, just in case. He watched as they crossed a log bridge over the rain-swollen gully, the taller, heavier man nearly slipping into the drink. They were coming this way.

One man spoke with an unmistakably East Coast American accent—a diluted and transmuted Bostonian. Between his grammar and inflections, the other man was obviously not a native speaker.

Miles swiveled around to get a better view out a different slot in the wall of the bunker. His finger slipped off the trigger guard.

Tugga-tugga-tug!

"Shit!"

He looked down. The tree tops dumped their water on the men. Bits of leaf spun down. One of the men—the American—lay in the undergrowth. Had Miles killed him? A bell clanged somewhere above the cliffs. Excited voices called to each other.

The shorter man, eyes fixed on the cliff face, stood his ground. He strode forward, unperturbed, and waved his arms.

"Hello!" he shouted. "We are friend. Friend!"

"Don't move!" said Miles, voice cracking.

The American rose up on his knees. He looked unharmed. His companion kept coming at Miles.

"Damn it! I said, don't move!"

Miles pulled the trigger intentionally this time, aiming low.

"Tugga tug!"

The bullets kicked up gravel in the short man's path.

The cliff top swarmed with movement. Pebbles clattered down the face. The short man stopped and looked up at Miles, smiling weirdly, waggling his palms. Miles really didn't want to shoot them. He just wanted them to go away. Ellie had told him explicitly that the farm couldn't handle any more refugees.

But the shorter man kept moving forward, as if he knew Miles wouldn't dare fire.

***

The shorter man was right. He came up the ramp and wangled Miles out of his bunker with sheer chutzpah and charm. The man, Tezhay, made it clear to Miles that he and his friend were no threat. Hearing them speak English to each other helped grease the skids, not to mention the fact that they mentioned Liz by name.

Miles led them up the switchback to the cliff top. He worried that Liz would be upset that he defied her orders and let two more refugees onto the farm. But these two didn't seem like refugees. They acted like they had come here on business.

Miles endured a moment of awkwardness with the ruddy-faced American—Frank—who apparently mistook Miles for his own son. The implication made Miles' stomach churn. When Frank went on to ask if Liz might be his mother, Miles didn't find that idea nearly as disturbing.

Frank looked out of sorts. He had trouble breathing and he swayed as if he were about to topple over. He struggled to haul himself up the ramp.

Villagers looked on warily, long bows and crossbows at the ready, as they topped the cliffs. Ellie and Misty approached from the far end of the defenses, where the waterfall plunged and a heap of slabs and boulders created an alternative access into the vale.

The two visitors paused and stared up the lane as Liz came out of a barn and limped down to sort things out.

Miles grew fidgety away from the bunker. He returned to it in a rush, drawn by a force that was eldritch in its tenacity. His eyes focused back on the path to the river road.
Chapter 16: The Morgue

Tezhay recognized the tidy little vale tucked above the cliffs. He was certain that he had looked down on it from foothills now buried under mist and cloud.

A blunt but precipitous pinnacle—the core of a dead volcano—guarded its entrance. He remembered those twisted basaltic columns, striations like claw marks, as if a giant bear had mauled it.

More than a year had passed since he had last visited these uplands. Somewhere, up there among the hundreds of barrows pocking the face of the mountainside, a cache lay buried.

Tezhay wondered if anything remained of the materiel they had smuggled. The corroded rifle in the hands of that Urep'o boy did not bode well for the cache's disposition.

"North of fourth," said Tezhay, whispering the mnemonic a fellow conspirator had once shared with him.

Doctor Frank had stopped to catch his breath. He wobbled like a tree about to fall. Tezhay reached out a hand to steady him.

People gathered to gawk. So many! They couldn't all live and work here. They were probably refugees from one of the smoldering villages along the river road.

Those defending the cliff were too poorly armed to be Nalkies. Some carried serviceable bows, but the rest wielded a hodgepodge of pitiful implements: hoes, hammers, pruning saws. They could have never withstood a Crasac assault without the aid of that assault rifle.

An Urep'o woman came lumbering towards them down the muddy lane, laboriously swinging and planting a crippled leg. She had an authority to her posture that told Tezhay that she was the master of this place—the matriarch. Two dogs spotted her and came bounding across a field.

Tezhay recalled the goatherd who had surprised him and his Nalki liaison, Tarikel, in the act of resealing a barrow. Tezhay's hand had tensed over his blade. He had secrets to protect.

But a nod from Tarikel put him at ease. Bimji was a friend who had fed and sheltered Tarikel's raiders and had even assisted once in a raid. Bimji also had an Urep'o wife. Tezhay remembered finding that strange at the time, before he learned how many Urep'o had been exiled to Gi.

Dr. Frank stood frozen like a statue, chin quivering, fingers clenching and unclenching. Finally, this poor man could have his woman and could rejoin the human race.

This Lizbet was a handsome lady. Apart from the bad hip, she looked strong: wide at the shoulders, amply bosomed. Hair like sheathes of wheat spilled from her head cloth.

Tezhay expected Doctor Frank to rush forward and embrace her but he just stood there, quaking like a tree in a stiff wind. Tezhay knew the man hadn't been feeling well, but was this any way to respond to a long-lost lover?

Bulbous clouds, pregnant with rain, tumbled down the mountainside.

"Go to her," said Tezhay. "Is this not your woman?"

"I gotta take this slow," said Doctor Frank. Tears rolled down his face. His knees shook.

Two girls came up to them from the cliff, one of them clearly Urep'o, the other part Giep'o and very likely Lizbet's daughter. So she had made a life here, unlike Doctor Frank. Tezhay knew that the Urep'o could be bothered by such things, but what could Doctor Frank expect from her, being apart from her husband for so long in a land where polygyny and polyandry were common practice?

"Oh, my goodness," said the half-breed girl in English much purer than Tezhay's. "He's another peregrin." She turned to Tezhay.

"Who are you people?" she said, switching to fluent Giep'o. "Why have you come?"

"We just visit," said Tezhay in English "No refuge. We come talk. My friend... he know this lady." He flicked his fingers towards Lizbet.

"Ellie, who are these people?" said Lizbet. "I thought we told Miles to turn everyone else away. We have too many refugees as it is. How are we supposed to feed them all?"

"They're not refugees, mom," said the girl—Ellie. "They say they know you."

"Know me? How? I've never... I've... I...." She stopped a few steps away in the muddy track. Puzzlement creased her brow.

"We never meet," said Tezhay. "But I know one of your man's. Bimji."

"Knew," said Lizbet. "Doesn't surprise me." Her gaze kept flitting over to Frank like a nervous fly. "Everybody and their cousin knew Bimji."

Doctor Frank raked his fingers through his beard, but he stayed quiet. Tezhay couldn't believe how the man was behaving. He had come too far to do nothing.

Lizbet's eyes locked onto Frank's. "Ho. Lee. Shit!" she said, chest heaving.

"Hi Liz," said Doctor Frank, his voice choked.

Lizbet blanched. Her eyes flitted and blinked.

Doctor Frank went towards her, but she turned and fled up the lane as fast as she could limp.

"Mom, what's wrong?" said the girl, hustling after her. "Do you know these people?"

"But, Liz! It's me," said Doctor Frank, hustling after her.

Lizbet did not look back. The snarling dogs intercepted Doctor Frank and cornered him against a wall. Tezhay flipped a rock at one to make it reconsider. Lizbet, meanwhile, slipped through a crowd of onlookers and vanished from sight.

"What happen?" said Tezhay. "Why she do this?"

"Don't know," said Doctor Frank.

"How come you no stop her?" said Tezhay. "You should have hold her. Why you do nothing?"

"I don't know!" said Doctor Frank.

"You people," said Tezhay, shaking his head.

He stared at the barn where the woman had run to hide. Doctor Frank looked stunned. A bank of clouds billowed over the vale and engulfed them. The skies burst open.

***

Ellie took Tezhay in one hand and Doctor Frank in the other and ran through the downpour up the lane. She pulled them into a small barn.

Doctor Frank, listless and dripping, stared down at three shrouded corpses arrayed on the floor, their faces uncovered, staring blankly upward. Foul clucked in the recesses of a loft.

"Sorry," said Ellie. "We're using this as a morgue. But at least we're out of the rain."

"These peoples," said Tezhay, waving his hand over the corpses. "From which village they come?"

"Sinta and Xama," said Ellie. "Cuerti attacked them. We're worried we might be next."

"But we saw Crasacs dead in the forest," said Tezhay.

"They came later... just this morning in fact. My big brother, Tom, took a bolt in the belly. That's why mom's all out of sorts."

"Is he okay?"said Doctor Frank.

"For now," said Ellie.

"Your name," said Doctor Frank. "Is it short for Eleanor?"

"Elehem," said Ellie, her eyes wide and fixed on Frank's face. "You're him, aren't you? You're Bowen?"

"Frank Bowen, yes."

"Mom might not want to talk to you, but I sure do," said Ellie. "She had so many stories about you! You were like some fairy-tale hero. I never imagined I'd get to meet the real Bowen. How did you get here?"

"Not sure," said Doctor Frank. "Ask him." He indicated Tezhay with a nod.

"Did you ever re-marry?"

"Why? I'm already married," said Doctor Frank.

Ellie and Doctor Frank blinked at each other.

"Mom said you probably found someone prettier and smarter and braver than her."

"Not possible," said Doctor Frank.

Ellie kept her eyes on Frank. "You realize, that I'm her daughter?"

"Kind of figured that," said Doctor Frank.

"So, you're my step-father?"

Doctor Frank forced a smile and nodded. "Your brother," he said. "If he needs help ... you know, I'm a doctor."

***

Ellie told Frank to wait in the barn and she would go see if the healers had finished. Apparently they were with Tom, performing some sort of vigil with incantations that could not be disturbed. Frank was tempted to disregard her instructions and follow, but he restrained himself.

This Tom kid could be his own son. Ellie looked to be about fifteen or so. If Tom was a few years older, that could put his birth within a year of Liz's disappearance. Could Liz have been pregnant in Belize? She'd been having stomach issues when they arrived, but Frank had attributed it at the time to the sketchy water they drank at Rio Frio.

Frank walked over to one of the corpses and peeled back a shroud. It was the body of an older man. He head was misshapen. He had been bludgeoned.

Tezhay poked his head down from the barn loft. "Come up," he said. "I make some sleeping places for us."

"Sleep?" said Frank. "Now?"

"For later," Tezhay. "Come see. Is Good."

Frank climbed a ladder with a missing rung into the dusty loft. Chickens cackled from the dark recesses under the eaves. Tezhay pranced around in a loin cloth. His wrung-out shirt and pants hung from a rafter. He had heaped together some musty hay into piles and covered them with sacking.

Frank sat down on his makeshift bed and took inventory. His heart skipped and doubled some beats, but for the most part behaved itself. He had shin splints and his knees were a bit stiff, but if anything his legs felt much stronger than when he had hiked out to Liz's monument in Rio Frio.

The barn door swung open. Liz entered. Frank's heart leaped. Had she come here to see him or avoid him? The sight of her astonished him. His eyes teared up.

Liz looked down at the corpses on the barn floor, made the sign of the cross. Frank stayed mum. When Liz looked up into the loft, she was startled to see Frank staring down at her. She had trouble meeting his eyes. She breathed like a cornered rabbit.

"Frank," she said, her tone subdued.

"Yeah?" said Frank, prompting a fit of coughing.

"Frank... Bowen," she said slowly, like a spelling bee contestant reciting an unfamiliar word. "It's really you, isn't it?"

"Yup."

"This is just too strange," said Liz.

"I agree," said Frank.

"You still practice medicine?"

"Off and on."

"Come," said Liz. "There's someone you need to see."

"Tom?"

"Ellie must've told you."

"I will come too," said Tezhay, rising from his bed, snatching his wet pants from a rafter.

Frank beat Tezhay to the ladder. He forgot about the missing rung and ratcheted down, thudding against the barn floor.

Liz stood there, arms folded, eyes shifty, fidgeting. Frank reached out to embrace her. Liz twisted away, knocking her shoulder against Frank's chin.

"Liz, I don't understand," said Frank, his arms frozen in an empty embrace.

Liz lurched out of the barn. Tezhay came down the ladder with his pants half on. Frank stood befuddled.

Tezhay glared at him. "Why you wait? Go, go!"

Frank hustled out of the barn and caught up with Liz in the muddy lane. The rain had stopped. Streaks of blue showed between the clouds and the mountains had been scrubbed free of mist.

"So how've you been, Liz?" said Frank, desperate to open some channel of communication with her.

"Oh, just peachy."

"It's good see you," said Frank. "I've missed you."

Liz's face betrayed no emotion. She kept her gaze fixed forward.

They came to a house with a broad porch. Ellie whipped around the corner and stopped abruptly, startled to see them. "It's clear," she said.

Liz scrunched her eyes. "What's clear?"

They followed a slick, clay path around back to an ad hoc addition to the main house. A trio of unveiled men and woman huddled just outside, conversing quietly. They parted to let Liz and Frank through a doorway sealed with a flap of oiled canvas.

Inside, was a small room with a single, narrow bed. The air was thick with incense. Earthenware oil lamps glowed in every corner.

Pegs on the walls held snares and fish traps. One wall bore smears of brown pigment that looked like a cave painting of a pickup truck. In one corner sat the broken remnants of a homemade toy truck, with wheels of fired clay and long handle for pushing.

Tom writhed on the bed, his hair all tousled and matted with sweat. Smears of dried blood stained his blanket and mattress. Liz brushed Tom's hair back and bent to kiss his brow.

Frank's heart, which had been behaving, threatened to trundle off like a skittish donkey, but its chaos stayed within bounds.

Liz's son. My son? He wondered. They had talked about naming their first born Thomas, after Liz's beloved grandfather.

Ellie and Tezhay entered the room.

"What happened to him?" said Frank. He went to the bed and pulled back the covers.

"He took a bolt in the belly," said Ellie. She reached for an object on a low platform by his head. "This one." She handed it to Frank.

Frank rolled it in his fingers. It had a thick, black shaft, with tight fletching. Its head was barbed and made of a dark bronze. "Wicked," he said.

Tezhay pushed between them. "Oh! This boy does not look good."

"No shit, Sherlock," said Frank.

Frank touched his forehead. No fever yet. He pulled up the rags they had used to hold on mats of something that looked like bleached moss. He peeled the moss back to find a jagged puncture wound. It looked recent. No sign of puss, no inflammation other than that induced by the trauma itself.

"That thing has barbs," said Frank. "How did they get it out so cleanly?"

"Our healers are good with hooks," said Liz. "They get way too much practice in these parts."

Frank peered into the boy's eyes. They were open, pupils dilated, but unseeing. Tom gave no indication that he knew the face of a strange, bearded man was hovering inches from his own. "Is he drugged?"

"The healers gave him something for the pain," said Liz.

From the way Tom writhed, the kid still hurt plenty. The drug simply blunted his ability to express it.

"Has he coughed up any blood?" said Frank. "Any hissing from the wound? Foamy bubbles?"

"None of that," said Liz.

Frank straightened up. "From where it entered, I don't think it punctured his GI tract, thank goodness. Might have nicked his spleen and liver, and God knows what else. When did this happen?"

"Just this morning," said Liz.

"The bleeding's probably stabilized, then. Whatever you do, don't let him get up or move too much. He might tear a clot and bleed all over again. That and septicemia, I'd say, are our biggest worries right now.

"Septicemia?" said Liz. "It's been a while, Frank. Remind me."

"Bacterial infection," said Frank. "Blood poisoning. Don't suppose you have any antibiotics?"

"You mean... like penicillin?" said Liz.

"Yeah."

"Nothing like that around these parts," said Liz.

"Not much to be done then. Keep him still. Boil his bandages. Pray his immune system can fight off the infections."

"That's it? That's all you're going to do?" said Liz.

"That's all I can do without a medical kit," said Frank. "All I have is my bare hands."

"Where'd you leave it?" said Liz.

"Belize," said Frank. "Rio Frio."

Liz looked like she had been slapped. Her face flushed red. She stomped out of the room.

Frank felt like he had been punched in the gut. He felt worthless. Had all those years of medical school and practice been wasted?

"Don't feel bad," said Ellie, whispers. "The healers pretty much told us the same thing. They've done what they can and the rest is up to Tom and prayers."

"What is this... kit?" said Tezhay.

"Medicines, bandages... doctor tools," said Frank. "I left them in the back of my rental car... in Belize."

Tezhay's lips tightened into a faint grin. "Maybe I can find you some kit," he said.

***

They left Tom's room and went out into the fading light. The clouds had been gashed open and split wide. It would rain no more that day.

Tezhay looked up into the mountains. Though some of the more distant peaks looked familiar, but the lower slopes gave him little bearing. He supposed he could always navigate using the pinnacle, but it would be better if he had a guide.

"Miss Ellie. Tell me, how you go to graves?"

She turned, eyes quizzical. "You mean the barrows up in the hills? You know someone buried there?"

"Not exactly," said Tezhay. "Not someone."

Ellie's eyes turned hard.

"Miss Ellie. These are no secret for me. I am involve with this."

"Are you a friend of Mr. Tarikel?"

"Yes, I know Tarikel," said Tezhay. "You show me?"

Ellie clammed up as Liz came careening past them from the cook shack, a pair of steaming bowls sloshing in her hands.

"You fellows want soup, better get it while you can," she said. "No second chances for meals these days."

Liz shoved a bowl into Ellie's hands. She went off her mom into the main house, though she glanced back at Tezhay with a serious look in her eye.

The porch resounded with slurping and clanking of spoons. Doctor Frank's eyes drifted after Liz. He looked dazed and docile. Tezhay redirected him towards the soup queue.

Tezhay chose two bowls found a stack of dirty ones left on the ground. The veiled man at the cauldron filled each with a ladle of watery broth with bits of greens floating. They went over and sat on the edge of the porch. A young girl was picking a tune on the family instrument.

"Ah, what a pretty sound she makes," said Tezhay, between slurps, tapping his spoon in time.

He could never resist a good instrument. He put his bowl down and went up to the girl. "Do you mind... if I try?" he said, in Giep'o.

The girl smiled and handed the instrument up to him. Tezhay handled it like a hollowed egg. Once he had it secure in the crook of his arm, he flailed at the strings with some violence and whined the lyrics to an old Sesep'o folk tune. He ended with a flourish and handed the instrument back to the girl.

"Is beautiful," he said, to Doctor Frank. "So resonating. Is a good one."

Tezhay looked at the bowl cradled in Doctor Frank's lap. The man had yet to take a spoonful.
Chapter 17: The Raid

Ara had hoped a walk would help soothe her nerves. She paced the breadth of the encampment, treading through tufts of hip-high grass still damp from the rains. Though the evening was calm, she found no peace. She regretted ever suggesting this expedition and dreaded what lay ahead for her compatriots.

Most of Feril's fighters slept where they sat, some not even bothering to unpack their bedrolls or prepare shelters. Feril had them encamp on the back side of the ridge to avoid being seen from the Mercomar. He allowed no fires.

The fields were abuzz with crickets and rumors. Some of the fighters seemed convinced that this was only a training exercise.

Ara detected Vul's baritone at the uppermost edge of the camp. Did she hear him say 'folly?'

She followed his voice and found him crouching next to Pari at the crest of the ridge, gawking at the fires girdling the mountain. Fire light glinted off the heliographs' mirrors and silhouetted the bulky tower that housed them.

"You think this is foolish, eh?" said Ara.

Her sudden appearance startled Vul. He sputtered before he could conjure an intelligible word. "No disrespect intended, comrade, but—"

"None taken," said Ara. "You may be right."

"We counted at least two dozen fires up there," said Pari. "Perhaps as many again on the other side, out of sight. Four or six men per fire. There could be two hundred men up there."

Ara scanned the ravine cutting up the side of the mountain – a black slash in the twilight. It would cover their approach should they choose to go forth. But it also provided ample opportunities to be ambushed. "Makes no sense. This is a relay station, not a fortress. I only suggested this raid because it was so lightly defended last time I scouted."

"Maybe someone told them we're coming," said Vul.

"That's not possible, Vul, said Pari. "We didn't know, ourselves, till yesterday."

Bushes rustled. Canu and Feril emerged, chatting like old friends, Canu's hand resting on Feril's shoulder. Again, Canu left Ara flummoxed.

"Feril says we're being followed," said Canu.

"My rear guard spotted them," said Feril. "A mounted force, apparently."

"Cuasars?" said Ara.

"They're Giep'o," said Feril. "Nalkies, if we're lucky. Though, they could be Polus. They're hanging back, not showing themselves."

"Why so shy, if they're Nalkies?" said Vul.

"Maybe they've mistaken us for Crasacs," said Pari.

"Wonderful," said Ara. "Enemies on two sides now."

"Or allies to back us," said Feril. "Shall we approach them?"

"I'm... not sure that's wise," said Ara. "Let me think about it."

Canu stared up at the Mercomar, hands on hips.

"So are we attacking or not?"

"I don't know," said Ara, looking to Feril, his form faintly brushed by the meager glow of a crescent moon. "It's much more daunting than I expected. And now we have this band of riders on our tail."

"The fires could be a bluff," said Feril.

"Or a signal," said Pari.

"I bet they're roasting elk... or mutton," said Canu.

"You would have us raid just for the food," said Pari, huffing.

"Maybe so," said Canu.

"I wish Seor were here to help sort this out," said Vul.

"Seor's not coming through that portal," said Ara. "You're stuck with me."

Ara regretted the chill in her tone the instant the words breached her lips. She felt eyes upon her from the darkness.

"Seor never did anything without a close scouting," said Canu.

"Seems prudent," said Feril. "I'll send a party forward."

"I'll go," said Canu.

Ara touched Canu's wrist. "Let Feril handle this," she said, softly.

***

The fires around the Mercomar had mostly blinked out, save for a few, feeble orange glows. Ara sat, shoulder braced against Canu's back among a group of sleeping, snuffling soldiers. She and Canu had dozed off and on in the hours since the scouting party had left. The crescent moon had since sailed a wide arc of the sky. Vul's siren of a snore threatened to break their cover.

"You awake?" Ara said softly, so as not to awaken Canu if he wasn't.

"Yes," said Canu, his voice muffled by the crook of his elbow.

"Nudge Vul for me, will you?"

Canu's leg sprang out and kicked Vul hard in the rump. Vul flinched and rolled onto his side. His snoring ceased.

"Do you suppose Feril suspects us?" said Ara.

"Suspects what?" said Canu.

"That we've gone rogue" said Ara. "That we're not actually executing orders from Baren."

"He's a greenhorn," said Canu. "Fresh out of training. He'll jump off a ledge if you ask him."

"But even so... I get the sense that he knows."

"Doubt that," said Canu. "He seems eager enough to fight."

Ara felt a void open up where Canu's shoulder had been. The night air stole the warmth of his touch.

Ara reached out to him, unseeing in the dark. Her fingernails scraped his ear.

"Ow! Why did you scratch me?"

"I was seeing where you had gone."

"Use your voice next time. It's not nearly as sharp."

"Sorry," said Ara, she sidled back against him until their sides touched. "Do you suppose Seor would have retreated in this situation?"

"Hah. Seor never would have gotten us in such a spot in the first place," said Canu. "Not out of cowardice, mind you."

"Oh? You think we should retreat?" said Ara.

"I didn't say that."

"We can," said Ara. "It's not too late."

A stone clattered over the ridge top.

"I'm with you, Ara," said Canu. "Whatever you decide to do. I just want to be included."

"Quiet," said Ara.

"It's true!" said Canu. "This is how I feel!" Canu took her hand. Ara shook it off.

"Canu, shush! Someone's coming!"

Ara rose up and stared down into the dark col. Where were the sentries? Should she sound a warning? What if this was an attack?

A whistle hailed them from the slope below – Feril's unit identifier.

Three came up the ridge, including Captain Feril.

"Feril?" said Ara. "I didn't realize you went along."

"We did it," said Feril, breathing hard. "We reached their perimeter. We heard men... speaking Giep'o."

"You're sure?" said Ara.

"What does that mean?" said Canu.

"I think they're slaves," said Feril. "We saw trenches and stonework. They're building fortifications."

"Hah! So there's no reason to abort our plan," said Canu. "The slaves might even join our fight, take revenge against their overseers."

"I'm just grateful they're not all Crasacs," said Feril.

Ara let a small patch optimism sprout in her blighted heart. She looked to the pale horizon. "The sun will be up in a few hours. We need to move fast. Roust your fighters, Feril."

He rushed off down the track, scouts in tow.

"You still aim for Pari and I to hang behind and twiddle our thumbs?" said Canu.

"There will be no twiddling of thumbs," said Ara. "You two protect our back side, and help address any contingencies that arise. I'll need you to stay alert and react quickly as things develop."

Canu looked down, and scuffed his toe against the pebbles.

"Are you with me, Canu?"

***

Ara trudged behind a vanguard of Feril's best fighters. Vul's detachment had veered off around a spur to circle around to the backside of the mountain, where they were to cut off any relief attempts from the garrison in the valley. Pari's group brought up the rear. As for Canu – no one knew what had happened to Canu. He was simply gone.

Light seeped slowly into the boulder-studded ravine, though the sun had yet to break over the hills. A heavy blanket of mist probed its upper reaches.

But they couldn't count on its cover for long. Ara had watched this mountain many a morning. The fog would burn off once the sun rose.

Ara's stomach felt like it had imploded. Canu had vanished without a word to anyone. While the news had stunned Ara, Pari and Vul had expressed little surprise or concern. It was simply Canu being Canu, they told her. They didn't think he had deserted them. Their sentiments offered Ara little consolation.

She wondered where Canu had gone. Had he gone off to pout, or was he ranging alone? What if he had deserted? Cadre protocol punished desertion with death. Would he turn native, perhaps, and join with the Nalkies. Would she ever see him again? Alive?

Ara kept silent, hoping to disguise her fluster as they passed through the progressively thinning trees. She was capable enough with bow and sword, but as a Traveler, recruited late into the militia, she had never actually fought against a Venep'o force, unlike Feril and Vul and Pari.

Most in Feril's company were even less experienced than Ara in battle. How would they do against a fortified objective with a disadvantage in terrain? Who knew how long Vul could hold off the garrison? Ara had instructed him not to linger—to flee before the odds of escape became nil.

Perhaps she worried too much. The slaves would rise up to aid them, even if they only had digging implements to wield. The operation had all the makings of a disaster, yet Ara felt powerless to stop it.

A runner came bounding up the stones. Feril halted the column. The runner doubled over, hands on her knees, coughing.

"Report," he said.

The runner, still breathless, could barely speak.

"Riders," she said. "Still following."

"But... who are they?" said Ara.

"Comrade Pari says... they're not... Cuasars."

"That's good," said Feril. "That's all I need to know."

"But who?" said Ara. The runner could only shrug.

They continued on. The trees grew smaller until canopy became even with the tops of their heads. It was slow plodding, made even slower by the need for stealth. It was impossible to prevent every snap and crunch of twig and leaf underfoot. Blasts of wind, hopefully, covered their crepitations.

When they reached the tree line they paused below the heath to reconnoiter their target.

A lacework of paths tacked through trampled heath to the Mercomar station with its massive stone foundation topped by a squat tower of squared-off logs. A man stood atop the tower, swabbing dew off the great mirrors. The baffles and shades used to encode the messages were fully retracted to each side.

The first fortifications were a short dash upslope, well within crossbow range. Workers had already mustered and labored hard, cracking slabs with picks, prying boulders from trenches.

There was something odd about these slaves. Clad only in under-sheathings, they seemed too well-fed. They were well-muscled, tall for Giep'o. Ara wished she had a spyglass to examine them more closely.

Feril came up from the rear.

"Our reserve is in place," he said. "How long do we wait?"

"We need to give Vul more time to get around the mountain," said Ara.

Feril gazed up through the sheets of mist sweeping across the slopes.

"Looks like a go, eh?" said Feril. He squinted. Puzzlement crossed his mist-spattered face. "Odd, I see only slaves. No guards or overseers. No Crasacs, for that matter."

Ara studied the scene before her. "You're... right," she said. Tingles crept down her backbone. Her breathing quickened.

One slave, a bit scrawnier than the rest, walked past a group scraping away at a trench. He climbed the slope obliquely, switching back, moving nearer and nearer to the tower.

"What's that one doing?" asked Feril.

Ara blanched. Her mouth dropped open, but she struggled to speak.

"What's wrong?" said Feril.

"That's no slave," she said. "That's Canu."
Chapter 18: Misty's Confession

Miles awoke, head jiggling, temple knocking against a rock. He found himself in the bunker, sprawled over gravel and moss with Misty leaning over him, shaking him by both shoulders. Panic exploded from his core. He bolted upright and scrambled to retrieve Tom's gun, which had slid into a crevice.

"Easy buddy! Everything's cool," said Misty patting. "We ain't bein' invaded."

Miles panted. He peered through gaps in the slabs fronting the bunker and scanned the forest edge. Cold sweat trickled from his brow.

"Don't you worry. There's no Crasacs anywhere near," said Misty. "Some of the village folks just went down to the river road to see what's up."

"Can't believe I dozed off again." Miles settled back. He still felt dazed. "How long have I been down here?"

"All day long," said Misty. "I saw you laying there and I thought you was dead." Misty's cheekbones were flushed above her veil. Miles was struck by how pretty her eyes were, not just their color—a soft, greenish, grey—but moreso the shape of them, almost Asian, like curvy almonds. Somehow she managed to look both earthy and exotic.

"I brought you some soup," said Misty. "No bread today. The refugees've just about cleaned out our stocks." She handed him a cracked wooden spoon and a gourd hot with soup ladled fresh from the cauldron.

"Thanks," said Miles, taking it from her. He ate eagerly, though it was mostly weak broth with some bits of vegetable and mushroom. His eyes kept returning to the trailhead below.

Misty's eyes wandered. She opened her mouth and aborted an attempt to speak.

"What's wrong?" said Miles.

"Nothin,'" said Misty. "I was just thinking about your cell phone."

"Oh?"

"Did you really... actually... talk to your mom... from here?"

"Sure did," said Miles. "Told her I was going hiking with friends."

Misty's eyes twinkled. Miles could tell she was smiling under her veil.

"You tried it lately?"

"Well, not since this morning. Why?"

"Jus' wonderin.'"

Misty fished in her blouse and pulled out a roll of pale bark about the size of a cigarette. She unrolled it to reveal a phone number scratched through the whitish integument to the dark brown layer beneath.

"If you ever get a signal again... can I ask you a favor?"

"I guess," said Miles.

"Can you call my sister Sue for me? This is her number." She shoved the slip of bark into Miles' hand. "Let her know I'm okay. But... more important... tell her.... Tell her it was me who took Grandma's cash. I know they probably blamed Donny, but it was me. But I was only borrowin' it. I didn't mean to take it for always. I mean... it wasn't like I stole it. What kind of grand-daughter do they think I am? I was going to pay it back. But then I ended up here."

"Uh, Misty, This is personal... I don't feel comfortable—"

"But if Sue's husband answers, just hang up. Don't say a word. Dale's kind of the suspicious type. But if it's Sue, tell her the money's in Donny's trailer, in a coffee can under the crawl space."

"Misty," said Miles, engaging her wide and anguished eyes. "You should be the one making this call."

Misty stared into the void beyond the cliff. "I... I suppose you're right, but...."

Miles pulled out his cell phone. "I'm going to check right now, okay? And I don't know that there'll be reception... but if there is, I'll place the call... but you do the talking. Okay? Just keep it short. We gotta save the batteries."

"Um... alright." Misty's looked mortified. She pulled down her veil, revealing her fine-boned, child-like features.

They waited for the phone to start up. Six tones chimed and his background photo of a Rickenbacker bass displayed, but no signal bars showed up in the upper left corner.

Misty expelled a held breath through pursed lips.

"Alrighty then," she said. "If and when you do get coverage and I'm not around, you can make the call, right? I mean, you know what to day. Of course, only after you handle your stuff. I know you probably got your own calls to make."

Miles turned off the phone.

"Misty, I'm not so sure I'll ever get enough bars again – here. I mean, they only popped up once since I came to this farm, and that was for only a few seconds. But—"

"Well, that's unfortunate," said Misty, deflating. "I was hopin'—"

"But I do know a place where the coverage comes in real strong," said Miles.

"Oh?" said Misty, perking up. "Where's that?"

"Up in the hills," said Miles. "By my car."

"Your... car?"

"I told you all. That's how I got here."

"I'm sorry Miles, but this is just too weird. A car? Here?"

"2009 Toyota Prius," said Miles. "The last model year before they updated the body."

"O-kay."

"For whatever reason, I had three bars of coverage up there. And the radio reception... almost as good as I get in Greymore."

"But how do we get there with all them Cuerti maraudin' around?"

Miles locked his eyes with hers. "Don't know." He looked down at the forest edge, eyes panning across a line of trees that had become very familiar to him over the past two days. "Maybe... maybe if it stays quiet like this, maybe we can just sneak off. After all, I've got this to protect us." He patted the rifle. "And once we get past the villages, it's all wilderness. No one to bother us."

Misty blinked—a lot. Miles was unable to decipher her reaction.

"So... you wanna come with?" he said.

Her eyes flickered with agitation and uncertainty.

"Aw, I dunno," she said. "Liz would kill me if I took off in the middle of all this. "Let's... let's see how things go."
Chapter 19: Infiltrator

Cloaked in mist so thick he could barely discern his feet, Canu slipped between the groups of toiling slaves. He used their voices to guide him away from their stone works, climbing climbed diagonally towards the blocky smudge that was the tower of the Mercomar, visible only for spells.

Moisture-laden wind spattered his shivering chest with dew. He had removed his shirt to blend with the slaves, and the chill had reddened and tightened his skin.

He knew he would catch hell from Ara for going rogue, but she should have known better than to stick him with the rear guard. He aimed to be the first to transmit the attack sign—the eight flashes of eight that would raise the militias from their assembly camps in the marsh lands. Doing so would send another message as well—to his comrades. Canuchariol was not to be underestimated.

Seams appeared in the solid blocks of mist. The rising sun was beginning burn through. It wouldn't be long before the mirrors of the heliograph would be free to flash.

This particular Mercomar was a relay station, repeating messages received across lines of sight extending to Raacevo, Verden and over the mountains to the Maora plains.

Ara had told him that sentries in the camps still watched the Mercomar every morning in hopes of seeing the attack sign, even after rumors from Sesei suggested that the counteroffensive—their reason, ostensibly, for infiltrating Gi—had been cancelled. Unofficially, their mission had shifted to simple deterrence, serving only to constrain Venep'o ambitions in Gi.

Canu aimed to make some sentries happy. 'All is clear,' would not be this Mercomar's first message of the day if he could help it.

He had never seen a heliograph up close, but how hard could they be to operate? It was just a matter of pointing mirrors to catch the sun.

The mist ripped opened and exposed him in the clear. He stood startled for a moment before bending down and pretending to work, rolling boulders free of muddy, mossy sockets, pulling up bushes by the roots.

His presence drew glances, but the slaves were too absorbed in their labors to challenge him. They seemed unusually healthy—well-fed, unbeaten, unbroken—probably newly captured. They also seemed quite tall and light-skinned for Giep'o. These observations nagged at him, but Canu prevented his mind from drawing unpleasant conclusions, attributing the urge to irrational fear.

A wall of fog sealed back over him. Canu dropped his ruse and edged closer to the Mercomar.

He veered close enough to one group to overhear them speaking in Venep'o. But that might only mean that their overseers had banned all local dialect, so no secrets could be kept, so uprisings could be plotted.

But where were these overseers? Canu had spotted only man who wasn't participating in the physical labors, and there seemed to be no guards. These slaves could easily overwhelm their master. But they toiled placidly, with minimal supervision. Was their spirit so broken?

Behind one of the working parties, Canu stumbled across a collection of jackets and armor emblazoned with blue unit insignias. The sight made him quail. These men weren't slaves. They weren't slaves at all.

As the magnitude of his error registered, Canu's innards sank, his pulse raced. The fog split open again, exposing him to the working party before him. Canu glanced towards the tree-line, wondering if he could wend his way back down without being noticed.

Rustlings in the heather – too erratic for the wind, too many to be birds. The militia had arrived on scene. Canu felt his courage bolster.

When the next bank of clouds rolled over, Canu continued up the slope. The tower of the Mercomar loomed over him.

The cloud drifted past. Through his peripheral vision, Canu spied a Crasac officer staring at him from the working party he had just passed. Canu took pains not to turn his head. The officer called for Canu to stop. He kept going. The officer clomped after him with much agitation in his step.

Canu scurried beneath the tower—a squat, bulky platform supported by columns of stone. Footsteps pounded on the timbers overhead, metal gears clanked. The heliograph was being prepared for the morning transmission.

The officer shouted up to the tower. The ladder creaked, legs appeared on the rungs. Canu ducked behind a column.

***

Ara saw Canu slip behind the Mercomar. She knew he had been spotted. "We have to attack. Now!" she said, her voice shrill. As she turned to Feril, the wind whipped loose hair across her face.

"But... we're facing Crasacs," said Feril. "Maybe we should reconsider."

"Look at them!" said Ara. "They're half-naked. They wield only shovels."

"Vul needs more time to get around the mountain," said Feril, his face blanching. "We would need to bring the reserves forward."

"Then call them. Now!" said Ara, "Before we lose any chance of surprise."

Feril stewed for a moment before leaning towards his sergeant. Ara couldn't hear what he said, but waves of hand signals spreading from soldier to soldier in all directions down the ranks told her that he had given the order. Two lines of archers came forward, bows already strung. A back line of skirmishers with short swords and light shields formed up behind the archers.

Feril raised his hand. All eyes turned to him. The Crasacs continued to work, oblivious to their presence, many with their backs to the trees.

Feril's hand dropped. The first line of archers let loose, followed by the second line the instant the first arrows struck. Several Crasacs fell, toppling stones they were in the process of lifting onto those below. The others stumbled and collided, careening about like angry ants.

"Now! While they're disordered," said Ara, raising her short sword. Before Feril could respond, she dashed out of the trees alone. Twenty-odd skirmishers surged after her, with Feril in their wake. A fire seized Ara like none she had ever felt.

The archers kept up a barrage over their heads, staggering their volleys. The skirmishers fell upon the breathless Crasacs, half-clothed and scrambling for their weapons. The few that stood their ground fell before the short swords of the skirmishers. The rest bolted across the mountain slope.

Pari's group, coming up through the stunted trees on the left to extend their flank to the left, unleashed their arrows. They had been lucky to catch the Crasacs without their crossbows, probably left behind in some armory in the expectation of peaceful labors.

Ara hadn't even needed to employ her blade, but she could see that condition would persist. Other working parties across the slopes, startled initially, had dropped their tools and dashed over to their stowed piles of gear. Some had already donned their armors and were forming up into assault blocks.

Some of the skirmishers were already pushing on towards the tower.

"Halt them!" said Ara to Feril. As much as she wanted to break to the Mercomar, dispersing now would render their small force vulnerable to a counterstrike.

Ara looked down the tree line, found Pari, and signaled a warning. The tide of the battle was about to turn. She could feel it.

***

Two Mercomar guards thudded down the ladder. Cries cascaded along the fortifications. Canu turned to see bolts and arrows flitting out of the tree line like startled flocks. The Crasac laborers scrambled for their armor and weapons.

The officer and the guards ran off in support of the defenses. Canu put down his armload of poles and hunted around for a better weapon, and found only a two-handled draw knife resting on a pile of logs. It made an awkward weapon, but it was the best he could find. He grabbed it and climbed the creaky ladder.

The attack down slope had caught the Crasacs unarmed and unarmored. Canu grinned. He had timed things perfectly.

A hand reached down a hatch in the platform. Someone wanted to help him up. Canu took a deep breath. The hand waggled impatiently. Canu maneuvered around the back of the ladder, seized the hand and pulled as hard as he could. A guard plummeted through the hatch and onto the log pile below, nearly hauling Canu with him.

Canu poked his head up above the platform. Heliograph assemblies were mounted on circular tracks in each corner but only one looked functional, with a full complement of mirrors and baffles to shape its flashes. He saw no guards. He hauled himself up, crouching low so as not to be seen over the rail.

A man appeared from behind the working heliograph, removing its protective sheathings, cranking it into position. He looked quite old, but wiry, white hair gathered in a long ponytail. Canu balanced the draw knife in his grip. It was an awkward weapon, but maybe the old man would back off if Canu simply brandished it at him.

The old man took one look at Canu, stepped away from the heliograph, and retrieved a long, slender saber from a crack between the floorboards. He strode towards Canu with a confidence that made Canu's evaporate. He stopped several paces away, a gleam in his crinkled eyes. Scars on his cheek and chin suggested that the old man was no stranger to sword fights.

***

A block of Crasacs, six by six, linked their shields and came after Ara and the skirmishers. Another block was half-formed behind them and a third was coming around the curve of the summit. Arrows had little effect on their armor.

"Have your archers put away their bows and join us," said Ara. Pari's group had already responded, and came up out the trees against the assault block's flank. That the assault pressed on before their support had joined up with them told either of the Crasac's confidence in their abilities, or their disdain for the fighting prowess of Sesep'o militia.

Feril looked at her anxiously. "Perhaps we should fall back?"

"Not yet," said Ara.

Feril whistled, dutifully, and his archers came forward, bows slung, swords drawn.

The assault block slowed.

"Looks like they were bluffing," said Ara. "They were hoping we'd break and run. Some of Pari's group continued to snipe with their bows, and were taking a toll on the order of the assault formation.

But the other two groups of Crasacs were on the move and about to join up on either flank, along with some stragglers sprinting over from the far side of the summit.

"They'll come when the others join them," said Feril.

"Let us see," said Ara, keeping her eye on the Mercomar.

***

For his age, the old man proved quick with his saber and lithe on his toes. He almost seemed to enjoy dueling Canu. Time and again Canu was late to parry. The mass at the end of the two-handled draw knife made it difficult to wield.

One of the old man's lunges proved serendipitous when the saber caught the free handle and lopped it off, giving Canu the equivalent of a short sword. The blade still curved the wrong way, but without the knobby handle, he could arrest and reverse his swings much more easily.

It still took all of Canu's wiles to evade the old man's rangier blade, stepping carefully around the platform, circling around the heliograph, always leaving enough room behind in case he needed space to dodge.

As Canu danced along the rail, he caught a glimpse of the battle below. He saw in that glance, the makings of a rout, with half-naked Crasacs either running away or battling the short swords of Feril's fighters with shovels. The sight inspired him. His broken draw knife no longer seemed like such a bad lot.

The old man circled Canu slowly, panting and grinning. "I warned them you would come," he said.

"Who, me?" said Canu.

"You are Cadre, no?"

"Militia," said Canu. "From Suul."

Canu's words seemed dissipate some of the verve from the old man's fight, as if he were disappointed to learn that his adversary less than elite.

Canu lured him close to heliograph and threw his weight against the structure supporting the mirrors. A cantilevered arm swung at the old man's head, forcing him to duck. Canu dove at his ankles, toppling him. The saber stuck in the cogged gears of the heliograph and snapped. Canu kicked the hilt out of the old man's hand and stuck the broken end of the draw knife against his throat.

"Go ahead," said the old man, meeting Canu's eyes without fear. He held his chin high and puffed out his chest. "Kill me."

"What if I don't want to?" said Canu.

"Don't expect me to do it myself," said the old man. "If I was younger you'd already been filleted."

A break in the clouds suddenly bathed the platform in light.

"Show me how to work this and I'll spare you." Canu grabbed the broken saber and clambered up the frame of the heliograph.

"What message do you intend? Greetings to the Alar?"

"Never mind that. Show me how to work it or I'll rip your throat."

"When I don't send the 'all is clear,' a thousand Cuasars will return the favor."

Canu saw the old man reaching for the broken tip of his saber. Canu strode over and kicked it off the platform.

"You sit down against that post, grandpa!"

"Grandpa? Save it for someone who is not a eunuch."

"I said sit!" said Canu.

The old man slid over to the post. Canu dragged over a sack of pebbles, used to keep the heliograph from rolling, onto the old man's lap.

"Now stay there and shut up, if you're not going to help me."

Canu turned one of the cranks that positioned the mirrors.

"Wrong way," said the old man.

"Oh? Now you're helpful?"

"I'm curious," said the old man. "I want to see what you send. Messages are my daily bread."

Canu kept turning until a mirror caught the sun and blazed it into his face.

"That's it, now turn the other one. Get the other mirror aligned with this one."

Canu did as he said, concentrating the beams, moving them closer to the main mirror.

"How is it you speak such good Sesep'o?" said Canu.

"I am from Ijaji."

"Ah! The land of pirates. No wonder."

"Merchants," said the old man.

"Same thing," said Canu.

The mirrors aligned but the beam of the first passed above the second.

"Now you need the other crank," said the old man. "Bring it down from the vertical."

Canu did a double-take. The sand bags on the old man's lap were half-empty. The old man had picked a whole in the corners and let the sand drain out. "Keep your hands on the rail or I'll cut off your fingers." Canu dragged another larger sack onto the old man's his legs.

"What the devil are you doing in Gi?" said Canu.

"I could ask you the same... if I didn't already know."

"So you're a traitor," said Canu. "Abandoning your country."

"Please. My country banished me."

The beam came down and caught the large mirror. He yanked on a lever that folded back a bat-winged bellows. A flash of light burst forth before the bellows sprang closed.

"Too bad it's pointing north," said the old man. "No one to see it but bears."

"You bastard!" said Canu. "You were guiding me the whole time. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm your enemy, not your tutor."

***

Three assault blocks of Crasacs had linked up and filled in the gaps between them. A Crasac officer, standing behind the formation, lowered a striped flag and raised a red one. The Crasacs advanced into the angle formed by the two wings of militia. The fighters near Ara had fallen back behind the partially completed stone works. Some had taken up abandoned Crasac shields and bits of armor. Discipline began to crumble in the face of the imminent onslaught.

"We can't stay here," said Feril. "They'll smash right through us."

As much as it pained Ara to abandon Canu, she had to agree. She saw no sign from the Mercomar that Canu had even survived his gambit.

"Back to the trees," said Ara, nodding.

Feril whistled, and his fighters, looking relieved, peeled away from the fortifications back to the tree line. Pari stood on a boulder, looking perturbed as she queried Ara with hand signals. Ara shaped the sign for an ordered retreat.

The Crasacs wheeled and loosened their blocks, believing perhaps that they had intimidated the militia into breaking and running. But Feril had his fighters stop just within the border of the thickets. Every other fighter strung their bows.

"I say two volleys and we go," said Feril.

And then the Mercomar flashed, once, but very brightly, to the north.

"Wait!" said Ara. "We need to hold out. Just a little longer."

The Crasacs advanced. Their lead ranks broke into a run, sabers raised, shields forward.

More heads appeared behind them, silhouetted against the sky, marching straight over the summit, filtering beneath the Mercomar.

"Another wave!" said Feril. "They'll break us for sure."

Ara squinted against the glare. Something seemed unusual about these Crasacs. Her heart leaped.

"These are... your own fighters," said Ara.

"What?" said Feril.

"Vul's come up the back of the mountain."

The fighters on the summit took one look at the scene below them and charged. Their cries startled the onrushing Crasacs, stalling them before they reached the trees. Their commander equivocated over what command flag to raise, turning his troops every which way.

"Get them!" said Ara, rushing back out the trees. Again the militia spilled forward with her into the ragged ranks of Crasacs.

***

Another large gap opened up in the mist. The sun perched like a fireball over the mountains beyond Maora, washing the Mercomar in its rays. Another bank of clouds threatened to soon close that window.

Canu hurried to get the heliograph redirected. Eight of flashes of eight didn't seem possible but he would try his damnedest to send eight flashes before they took him. He spun the balky crank as fast as he could move it.

Panicked shouts came from the slopes below the tower. Canu couldn't tell which way the battle was turning.

Steps pounded up the ladder. Canu grabbed the broken saber and leaped over to the open hatch, determined to slay whoever appeared to buy him some time.

The old man shouted a warning in Venep'o to those below.

"Shut up, you old bastard!" said Canu, raising the saber.

"Canu, is that you?" said Vul, poking his head through the hatch.

"Vul? You almost got yourself impaled."

"With that... stub?" Vul climbed onto the platform. "Who is this man?"

"He's the operator," said Canu. "A mercenary from Ijaji."

"The station master?"

"Perhaps," said Canu.

"Canu, we need to go, there's a large force coming up the mountain, Cuerti among them. We've stirred the hornet's nest."

"Not yet... I haven't sent the signal."

"There's no time. We'll just destroy it."

"No!" said Canu, rushing over to the heliograph. "Help me... help me turn this."

"Canu, we can't—"

"Help me, Vul!"

Vul came over and helped Canu spin the crank until they got the main mirror, shielded by a spring-loaded baffle, aligned down the valley towards Raacevo. Canu then adjusted the array of smaller mirrors that concentrated sunlight onto the signal mirror.

"He learns," said the old man.

Panicked shouts sounded below the tower. "They're coming!" said Vul.

Canu peeked over the rail. The Crasac working party had retreated, but another larger force had emerged up the back side of the mountain and were advancing on the Mercomar.

Frantically, he adjusted the secondary array until every beam converged, and then he wrenched open the baffle. The main mirror bloomed with the radiance of a second sun, telling Raacevo and its environs that all was not clear.

Chapter 20: The Cache

Frank retired to his corner of the loft that night feeling like a sponge wrung of every last drop of liquid. His joints ached from days of walking. His head swam with schools of half-formed and conflicting thoughts that tried to give sense to Liz's baffling hostility towards him. His feelings towards her had only burnished over their twenty years of separation. How had hers become so tarnished and corroded?

He collapsed onto a sack of soiled and musty hay, fearing what the next morning would bring for Tom. If sepsis set in, the reaper would stake his claim. Frank would be helpless to stop anything without IV antibiotics.

And then would Liz blame him? Would he blame himself? The only gift he had brought to her, his healing skills, was just an empty conceit without the tools of his trade.

Clearly, Frank had appeared out of the blue during an extraordinarily stressful time. Her son lay bedridden with a belly wound about to fester and poison his blood. She had lost this Bimji fellow—boyfriend, husband, or whatever he was. Her farm had been attacked. She had refugees underfoot.

But it was Frank's nature to find blame in his own actions. He had always felt responsible for her disappearance in Belize, ever haunted by his decision to stay behind in Rio Frio while Liz went touring up the Macal River with Father Leo. Perhaps the same demon spawned a grudge that Liz managed to sustain for all these years.

He slept off and on. Sometimes he could hear Tezhay snore or talk in his sleep across the loft. When awake, he stared at the stars through the open eaves. A chill breeze filtered in through gaps in the vertical planks. The stink of his unwashed body wafted up when he rolled over on the lumpy straw.

The barn door creaked open. Hoofs scuffed clay and something snorted. Ellie called up into the barn, speaking Giep'o. A dark shape scuttled towards the ladder.

"Tezhay?" said Frank. "That you?"

Tezhay stopped and turned. "Doctor Frank, do you not sleep?"

"Off and on," said Frank. "More off than on."

Ellie called up again, her voice impatient. Tezhay answered her, curtly.

"Where're you going?" said Frank. "So early."

"Ellie, she takes me up to hills. We try and find you some kit."

"Hang on a sec," said Frank, rustling up from the straw. "I'll go with you."

"Is too much climb," said Tezhay. "Hard for your heart."

"I'll be fine," said Frank, pulling on sandals.

"Stay, be near your woman," said Tezhay. "Maybe today she be nice."

"Nah, I'm going with you," said Frank. "I insist."

Tezhay sighed. Frank followed him down the ladder, treading gingerly across the barn floor, although the corpses were gone. Someone had come for them during the night. It smelled more like a barn, less like a charnel pit.

Ellie stood in the lane with a pair of donkeys, their manes lightly burnished by a sliver of moonshine and a billion stars. The sky was mostly clear, with a few strips of cloud fringing the mountains. Lightning pulsed somewhere far beyond the horizon. Frank took a deep breath to counter a lightheadedness that had more to do with a lack of blood sugar than oxygen.

"Keep your voices low," said Ellie, whispering. "Mom doesn't know I'm up, and she's a light sleeper."

They went to the end of the lane and veered up a steep gulch that led them onto a tilting plateau of undulating meadow and isolated copses of trees.

The sky lightened as they climbed. Grey became green.

Frank was almost grateful to be away from Liz, the distance quelling any awkward urges to confront her, giving him some space and time to process why she felt the way she did. Perhaps Ellie could offer some insight to her mother's thinking.

As they climbed, the tension that had encased Frank fell away like a sloughed shell. His heart, lungs chugged away without a hitch. The donkeys maintained a languorous pace, stopping often to nibble, in no hurry to reach their burdens. Frank had no trouble keeping up.

Diffuse herds of goat and sheep speckled the hillsides. The upper meadows still sopped from the two days of rain. Life had exploded among the dead and bleached traces of last year's forage; flower stalks and new blades of green grass knifed through the thatch.

The donkeys threaded their way through a natural wall of crumbling ledges to another sweep of unbroken meadow stretching to the roots of the higher mountains.

A grey blotch that Frank had mistaken for a boulder gradually resolved into a squat, stone cabin with a sod roof. Two shepherds stood before it, baying dogs beside them, watching them approach.

Tezhay walked right past them, his eyes intent on the dozens of steep-walled mounds jutting from the landscape. Ellie went up to the men and chatted with them. The younger of the two gawked at Frank like he was a circus freak.

"Asao says he knows you, Mr. Tezhay," said Ellie.

"Oh yes?" said Tezhay, head whipping around. He strode over and greeting the men with shoulder bumps and hugs. He came back and whispered to Frank. "I no remember this guy. I just pretend."

Tezhay wandered off into the field of mounds. The grayed carcass of a small cart lay upended, one wheel missing in the tall, brown grass. Shattered barrels were strewn around it.

Tezhay counted off four mounds, glanced back at the cabin and veered off, stopping before a mound like the others. Boulders studded its periphery like gems around the base of a crown. They were river stones, naturally rounded, each defaced by a divot or a chip. Frank ran his finger through one of the blemishes.

"Those are keyholes for keepsakes," said Ellie. She removed a pinkish wedge of granite from her pocket. "This one's for my little sister Fanny. It matches her boulder and only her boulder."

Tezhay circled the barrow studying each stone. He stopped before one, pried it out of the sod and rolled it down the slope.

Ellie gasped.

"No worry," said Tezhay. "Is no one bury here." The surface of the boulder he had displaced was completely unblemished.

A barrel lay shattered in the weeds. Tezhay ripped off one of the staves and stabbed it into the side of the mound. "Help me dig," he said.

Frank pulled off a stave and helped Tezhay cut through a dense tangle of sod to reach the soft, red earth below. Tezhay yanked a long, bleached bone out of the clay and tossed it into the weeds.

Ellie's eyes went wide. She covered her mouth with her hand.

"Relax," said Tezhay. "Is from sheep."

A few more scoops and they struck slate. Tezhay carved away the earth until he exposed the entire slab. Frank helped him pull it away, to reveal an arched opening framed by blocks of stone. The smell of mildew and rancid oil wafted out.

Tezhay got down on his knees and crawled in. He reached in and dragged out a box the size of a coffin, the wood rotted at the corners and coming apart at the joints. He pried open the lid.

"This better not be someone's uncle," said Frank.

"No worry," said Tezhay, picking at a seam of pitch that sealed the box. "I know this box."

The lid snapped in two and Frank staggered back. He peered into the opening, reached in and pulled out a pouch of thick brown plastic.

"MRE," said Frank. "Meals Ready-to-Eat."

"Food," said Tezhay.

"In theory, anyway," said Frank.

He thumbed the black printed labeling. "Jeez! These things are like ten years old."

"Must be spoil, yes?" said Tezhay.

"Well, they're MREs, so they're probably okay," said Frank. "Okay as MREs get, anyhow. It's not as if they can taste any worse."

Frank reached back in and felt around, and touched something cold and hard and heavy. "There's... guns in here." He ripped another chunk of lid off and worked a rifle out of the hole. It looked like an AK-47 but had odd attachments on top and a fixture for a gas canister. Frank read aloud from a tag dangling from the trigger guard.

"The T68 AK47 features the same inherent reliability and durability of our T68 line, by virtue of being made almost completely of metal. To replicate the real deal, the butt stock and hand guard are made of wood. The T68 AK47 can be powered by CO2 or compressed air and is compatible with any size air tank or cylinder." Frank looked up at Tezhay. "This is a dang paintball rifle."

"Paint? Ball?" said Tezhay. "Explain please."

"It's a replica, made to look real," said Frank. "A toy for grownups to play war."

Tezhay grabbed the weapon from Frank. "You wrong. This real," he said. "Just like the one the boy has. The one he kills the Crasacs."

"Nope. It's a toy," said Frank. "Doesn't bode well for my medical kit."

Tezhay's brow crinkled skeptically. "What it shoots?"

Frank fished out a cardboard box and ripped it open. "These," he said. An avalanche of brightly colored, translucent balls tumbled down onto what remained of the coffin's lid.

Tezhay sucked his teeth "Is bad."

"Why?" said Frank. "What's all this for?"

"Is part of old plan," said Tezhay. "To fight Venep'o. This plan, as you can see, it has fail."

Frank knelt down and pulled more gear out of the coffin: another paintball rifle, more MREs, CO2 cartridges, paintballs, hoppers. Ellie walked between them, picking the little jawbreaker-sized paintballs out of the grass as if they were berries.

"Nothing medical in this box," said Frank, heat rising to his face.

Frank picked up a white cardboard box that disintegrated in his hands. Cigar-shaped objects wrapped in white paper, twisted at the ends, tumbled out. It was heavy and malleable like clay.

"What the hell are these?" he said.

Tezhay took it from him carefully and gathered up the rest. "No touch. Is danger."

Ellie crouched down before the chamber. "I see another box in here," she said. She squirmed into the crypt and slid it out. Broken glass chimed each time she bumped it.

"Oh, that didn't sound good," said Frank. He helped Ellie slide it out onto the grass and tore the lid off, pawing through a layer of oil cloth to reveal a litter of broken vials and ampoules, crusted together with mold and salt from punctured IV bags. A label on a glass shard read penicillin.

"Oh man," said Frank. "This would have been good to have."

Frank salvaged whatever was salvageable: syringes, field dressings, foil tubes of bacitracin. He scraped some gunk off the diaphragm of a stethoscope and tucked it around his neck.

"There's one more big box," said Ellie, on her elbows, grunting as she worked it back a few inches at a time. "This one's heavy."

Frank helped her wrestle it out of the crypt. His expectations sank when he saw it all bashed in and rotted. The lid was loose and popped off easily. Beneath the layer of oil cloth were boxes of bullets, stacks of stained twenty and hundred dollar bills and several zippered bags of olive drab nylon.

Tezhay snatched up the cash, along with an oblong bundle wrapped in more oil cloth. A flap fell away to reveal hinged device with slats and dials.

"That a... tabulator?" said Frank.

"Never mind," said Tezhay, stuffing the cash inside the lining of his jacket.

Frank stared at him. Tezhay's eyes wandered like a guilty but unrepentant child's.

"Go find your medicine," said Tezhay.

Frank picked up one of the olive drab bags. Their aluminum zippers were crusted white with corrosion but gave way with only a little bit of force. One pocket was crammed with sterile battle dressings and gauze—a vast improvement of the rags they had been binding wounds with down at the farm. Another contained dental floss for tourniquets, scissors and hemostats, airways and tape.

Frank grabbed another bag.

The next bag tinkled as Frank handled it. He sighed as he unzipped the top flap, expecting more destruction. He found, as expected, more broken glass, but like jewels among the shards floated several intact ampoules—morphine, penicillin and ampicillin—lyophilized and needing only reconstitution with some of the sterile saline he had salvaged from the first coffin.

Frank's heart fluttered benignly. The windfall fed his spirit like manna. Doctor Frank was back in business.

Tezhay slithered out of the crypt with a pair of rifles. He pointed one at Frank, playfully.

"Toy, yes?"

"Uh... no," said Frank. "That one's real."

***

Frank watched Ellie cinch the last bundle onto one of the donkeys, most of it ammo from boxes fished from deep in the crypt. Frank insisted on carrying all of the medical gear himself. The first donkey was already waddling back down the meadows towards the farm.

Tezhay had retrieved a total four real AKs and six paintball guns. Frank could only figure that Tezhay refused to believe they were toys.

Tezhay stood off by himself up near the goat house, gazing up into the mountains. He seemed lost in thought, almost in trance. Frank came up behind him, and followed his line of sight, finding nothing but goats and grass and mountains.

"What do you see?" said Frank

Tezhay jumped a bit. "Nothing," he said, and stalked off after the donkeys.

They arrived back at the farm after midday, well behind the donkeys. Frank went straight to Tom's room, where he found Liz standing by his bed.

"Well, well," she said. "I thought you and your friend had gone and kidnapped my daughter."

"How's he doing?" said Frank, rushing over to the bed. Tom was flushed and sweaty. He had kicked off his blanket. Frank lifted Tom's dressing to reveal an inflamed wound, its edges swollen and puckered like lips.

"Fever's coming up," said Liz. "He's been unconscious, delirious. But it might be the herbs the healers gave him. He keeps dreaming out loud about giant birds trying to wrap him in their wings. I keep telling him I shooed them way but it doesn't help. His pet nightmare... he's been having it since he was just a little thing."

"Got something here that should help him," said Frank, a heat flaring in his gullet.

Not a flicker in her eyes gave Frank any hint that his words had reassured her.

Frank removed a pair of glass hypodermics he had padded with gauze. I need these sterilized. "Can you boil some water?"

"We always keep a kettle on the fire," said Liz. She nodded to Ellie who was looking on from the doorway.

Frank tried the stethoscope, but the diaphragm was too clogged with gunk to work. Tom's pulse was fast but strong.

"He's got a raging infection going," said Frank. "But it hasn't gone septicemic. I don't see any hemorrhaging under the skin. That's a good sign."

Ellie rushed back in, hauling a massive iron kettle. Frank took apart the syringes, rinsed a basin with hot water, added the syringes, and immersed them. He pulled the two vials from his bag, similarly cushioned with gauze and put them down carefully on the table by the basin.

"Whatcha got?" said Liz, stepping forward.

"Antibiotics," said Frank. "Penicillin for the gram negative bacteria. Ampicillin for the gram positives. It's nice we have both. Otherwise it'd be a crap shoot."

He assembled syringes and stuck a clean needle on each, wiped an IV bag's valve with an alcohol pad and jabbed one in. He picked up the vial of penicillin and poked its membrane, pumping sterile saline in and out several times to reconstitute the dried antibiotic.

"Here, wipe the crook of his elbow with this." Frank handed the alcohol pad to Liz. Tom had easy veins, but Liz and Ellie both winced as Frank injected him. Frank repeated the process with the ampicillin.

"Nice to know you still make house calls," said Liz.

Frank smiled. "The cab fare's on me."

"So how's he look?" said Liz. What's your prognosis?"

"Can't say for sure," said Frank. "Don't know how nicked up his organs. But things look promising. This could have been a lot worse. He's gonna need another shot, most likely."

Liz went up to Tom and smoothed his hair. She squeezed his limp hand.

"This is how Doren passed," said Liz. "Same kind of wound. Maybe lower, deeper."

"Doren was my Uncle," said Ellie.

Liz leaned over and kissed Tom's forehead.

"He looks just like you, Liz," said Frank. His throat knotted. His eyes seeped. "Is he ours, Liz?" Frank blurted. "Is Tom... our son?"

Liz turned slowly to face him. Frank gave her a chance to speak, but her eyes retracted, her features hardened. She got up and stalked out of the room.
Chapter 21: News from Maora

Wind vibrated the aperture of the temple dome like a blown jug, its drone rivaling the temple's steam horn in volume. The watch deck rattled, its floor conducting vibrations through the Alar Benka's bones, chattering his teeth as he knelt, praying for the Mercy of Cra.

No other temple that Benka had served in his long career had ever sung like this one. An accident of construction, its resonance derived from a combination of curve and overhang that caused it to moan whenever the wind came from the south or west. Yet another quirk that made his posting in Gi so special.

The day's visitors—a Brother from Maora, a Polu liaison from Qualla—waited in the courtyard below with Benka's advisors, cycling through their own prayers beneath the monolith of Cra, its hooded pinnacle rising well above the temple's rim. They knew better than to join their Alar, respecting his daily ritual of taking prayers atop the dome, alone but for the pair of sentries keeping watch over the plateau.

Between prayers, Benka's eyes drifted to the southern mountains and the Mercomar, first in a chain extending to the distant plains of his homeland. Other relays led north to Verden and east to Maora: the walled resettlement colonies intended to be the seeds of expansion.

To the west, there was nothing. Rugged terrain combined with an unusually organized and vigorous Giep'o resistance had rendered the entire sector off-limits to colonists. The ruins of a burned tower across the marshes reminded the Alar of this unfortunate truth each morning.

But now, every heliograph visible on the horizon sat dark. Two straight days of rain and cloud had snuffed all transmissions. Although the sky overhead had finally cleared, a thick shroud of mist still clung to the mountains.

Gi was entering the season when the Mercomars would become useless for months at a time and mounted couriers would be the sole purveyors of the supreme leader's—the Venenendera's—missives. But the season was young and the sun remained strong. Perhaps today the clouds would burn away long enough to allow some news from home.

The sentries shuffled nervously at their posts. Benka saw them sneak glances but pretended not to notice.

This latest duo was unusually stiff and taciturn, immune to Benka's attempts to engage them in banter. He blamed it on the rigidity of their indoctrination. With the advent of Cra Supremacy, recruits these days took their catechisms too literally, believing the propaganda that high officials like Benka were extensions of Cra—demigods.

But these boys were new. Give them time they would learn that Gi's Supreme Governor was just as frail and human as they, and maybe they could at least talk about the weather and the quality of their suppers.

Stairs creaked. Tousled hair, a soot-smeared face poked up out of the stairwell. "Mercy of Cra, Brother Alar." The man's voice boomed over the drone of the vibrating temple.

Who was this person, approaching and addressing an Alar without an escort or introduction?

"And to you," said the Alar, belatedly.

The man climbed up onto the platform. Benka backed away a step. Where was the sergeant of the guard?

The man smelled too much of horse to be anything but a Cuasar. Breeches polished and frayed by wear from a saddle confirmed that assumption. Although he wore a rough tunic, mud-stained and rumpled, the quiver of signal flags on his back indicated that he held a high rank.

A realization staggered Benka. Could this sloven be his new general?

The colonies' defenses had been without a joint leader since the disaster at the viaducts. The overall commander at the time, Baarog Greenan, a sickly and elderly Crasac who rarely ventured from garrison, had been whisked back to Venen without explanation. Benka himself had to serve the role of military overseer, as if he didn't already have enough responsibilities.

When word flashed by Mercomar informed him of the general's imminent arrival, Benka alerted this Cuerti, Crasac, Cuasar and Polu commanders to prepare intensive briefings and kept them on call, requesting that the new general be brought to his chambers the moment he arrived. Instead, the squadron of Cuasars escorting the general had bypassed the plateau holding the main garrison and temple, heading straight through Raacevo and into the hinterlands.

"Vasil Clesson, reporting to you, Brother Alar," said the officer.

Benka looked back at him coyly, not knowing whether to be peeved or amused. This was his general alright. Clesson was tall; the Alar's forehead only reached his chin. He exhibited a calm, almost bored demeanor. The man was obviously accustomed to working with high officials, unlike the bottom tier officers that the Brotherhood usually exiled to the frontiers. This man was another species altogether.

Clesson gazed up into the mountains and smiled. "Good timing. Another hour and the Mercomars will have sun."

"You know this, how?" said Benka. "The clouds look pretty thick to me." He had been on the verge of giving up and heading down to his chambers for his morning audience, planning to return at midday.

"Look more closely, my dear Alar," said Clesson. "They're already breaking."

Benka squinted up into the hills, finding seams and signs of movement that weren't evident before.

"I sent word for you to see me," said Benka, sternly. "Did that request ever reach you?"

"Halfway to Maora," said Clesson. "We aborted our tour to return to you."

"Most officers take some time in garrison before heading out to the provinces."

"Well... I am not like most officers, apparently. There is no better way to familiarize one's self with a new territory than to plunge right in and ride a circuit, staying on the move. That way no one expects you; no one can prepare an ambush. And this way you see things how they truly are; it's not just show."

"And what did you find?" said Benka, curious. He rarely dared to venture any farther than Raacevo proper, depending on the eyes and ears of his soldiers for intelligence.

"Well, it's certainly chaotic out there, but not as bad as I expected. I found more resentment than resistance, but tithing is never popular in any kingdom, even our own. I was most impressed, however, by how receptive many are to our faith. I found Sinkor shrines everywhere, all protected by irregulars. That's quite an impressive group of Polus you've accumulated."

"Conversions have been our greatest success," said the Alar. "The only success, some would say. So where exactly did you travel?"

"We probed some of the western valleys," said Clesson. "But we didn't go far. They gave me a bad feeling. We had eyes upon us at every ford and pass. I feared an ambush, so we turned back. So we kept to the eastern valleys, mostly. From Verden to Xama. I enjoyed Verden. It almost felt like home. Everything about it – the houses, the fields –a slice of Venen. Security seemed a bit lacking, so we bolstered the stockade and assigned a detachment of Crasacs, but I don't think there's anything to worry about. They have achieved some degree of détente, and even some trade with the natives."

"But we ran into a spot of trouble in the other valley, on the road to Maora. A patrol warned us about a place called Xama, some unusual activities there recently. Fighters."

"Sesep'o militia, most likely."

"Sesep'o? In Gi?"

"Someone as veteran as you should not be surprised to find Sesep'o militia showing up in places where they are not at all expected."

"But... why would they care about Gi? It's half a world away."

"It's the back door to Venen. This is the reason I wish you would have allowed me to brief you before heading off on your adventures."

Clesson smirked. "I thought I came to quell an uprising, but Sesep'o militia? This complicates things."

"No worries," said the Alar. "We have arrangements with Sesei. A truce. But what of this trouble you mentioned?"

Clesson sighed. He gazed down the plateau towards the forests and fields to the east. "On the way to Maora we found signs of Nalki activity—a forge, and an armory of sorts—in a village called Sinta. I am afraid my men were a little too vigorous with their... enforcement. Burned a few structures, killed a few locals who got in the way. My fighters forget they're not in Sesei anymore. I don't think we'll be recruiting any Polus from that valley anytime soon."

"That's alright," said the Alar. "A little force now and then is good. Helps tamp down the Nalkies."

"I fear... that's not how things work, my dear Alar," says Clesson. "These Giep'o fight back. We had ten Crasacs go missing. Unnecessary violence begets resistance. As far as I can tell, every last person in Gi is a potential Nalki."

"Ah, but the Brothers who indoctrinate our Polus would beg to differ," said the Alar."

Clesson smirked. "I'm not convinced every Polu is true to his faith. I sense an element of opportunity in Giep'o culture. These Polus will turn if something better comes along."

"What's done is done," said the Alar. "It's not the first time a village has been sacked here, it won't be the last."

Something blinked in the hills between Sinta and Maora.

"What was that?" said the Alar. "Did you see that?"

"It was a flash," said Clesson. "But it wasn't directed towards us."

"It went to the North," said the Alar. "Why would they signal the north? It's barely inhabited."

A brighter flash flares, directly to the temple.

They waited in vain for more. The Alar kept glancing to Clesson, but the general stared straight ahead.

"Just... one?" said the Alar. "Not even an 'all is clear?'"

"Because, apparently...." said Clesson "All is not clear." He hustled to the stairs.

***

Bimji reclined in the grass beside the river and watched the Nalkies do their washing. Idala, their leader, joked with her fighters as they pounded and kneaded wads of clothing and bedding against stone slabs. Every available boulder on either bank was draped with items spread to dry, taking advantage of the sun which had just broken through a distant cloud bank.

Bimji was lucky to be alive. The torture had broken his ribs and torn ligaments in his ankles and knees. He was emaciated and dehydrated when the Nalki raiders rescued him. During the rescue, a Cuerti saber tip had nicked his neck and collarbone, and the blood loss had caused him to lose consciousness.

Teo and her raiders later told him later how they managed to abscond from the temple grounds unscathed, and how they bore Bimji on a litter across the marshes to a village deep in the western forests.

An ancient and withered healer named Hizzos had presided over his mending, sewing his lacerations closed, painting them with tinctures that prevented gangrene, positioning and wrapping his knees in a way that allowed the torn sinews to knit.

Hizzos gave him philters for the pain kept him dreaming and baffled during the early days, oblivious to the passage of time and unsure of his identity. He fed him broths that slowly restored his strength, forced him to stand and walk when all he wanted to do was curl up and die.

Hizzos weaned him off the potions once the swelling and redness had receded. Bimji's physical pain became gradually displaced by longings for Lizbet and home. When he was strong enough to walk, they brought him up to Idala's cave home, where he stared longingly at the jagged peaks that soared above her compound. One morning he snuck a way and climbed one of the smaller ones, gazing east to the volcanic core that rose above the cliffs at the head of the vale. The homestead was too distant to see even if the vale weren't obscured by a ridge, but just a glimpse of this familiar landmark was enough to warm his heart.

Mended, no longer an invalid, Bimji was a voluntary exile here, dissuaded from returning home by Teo and Idala's constant remonstrations. They kept telling him that he was a marked man; that every Polu between here and Maora would be looking out for him. And once they found him, they would summon Crasacs to burn his farm, slaughter his family, if they hadn't sacked the homestead already.

Bimji was certain he had never told his captors his real name or where he lived. He doubted that Tarikel had survived long enough to spill their identities. He worried, though, that the cart and donkey he had left at the farm of Tarikel's cousin, could be traced back to his family.

Ellie had decorated the sideboards of the cart with stylized etchings of grain sheaths and vines. Such decorations were not uncommon, and the motif Ellie used was traditional among the valley folk, but Ellie's style was distinctive enough for some Polu to recognize. The possibility ate at him and made him yearn to return to Sinta, but for now, he heeded Idala's warning.

Bimji enjoyed a degree of celebrity among the Nalkies for his role in toppling the viaduct. Despite Idala's decree that Bimji be left alone and his deed kept mum, her fighters regularly came to see him, sometimes with clans folk in tow, eager to hear retell his stories of the magic of tovex and the inner workings of the Alar's temple.

Even in these remote western valleys, the destruction of the viaduct had made a difference in their lives. For one thing, the incident had made the Cuasars less adventurous. Apart from some recent incursions, they no longer patrolled west of the marshes. The colony they attempted to found near Gor'ta had been abandoned.

Bimji envied the relative peace and autonomy of Gor'ta and its environs. He couldn't imagine a Sinta without tithe collectors, couriers and Venep'o military formations. The west had reverted to Gi as he had known it before the Venep'o had come.

The sentinel at the top of the ravine called out a warning. His timbre and urgency suggested, however, that whoever was coming was a friend. A handful of travelers appeared on the road, mud spattering their breeches. Bimji stood and stretched, curious. Idala waded out of the water, skirt lifted to her knees. Bimji clambered off the boulder after her into the chilly water.

Among the visitors was Teo, the Sesep'o cadre operative who had led Bimji's rescue. Idala strolled up and greeted her warmly with alternating shoulder bumps and a tight embrace. "Maybe I should not act so happy to see you," said Idala. "Half the time you bring me bad news."

"I don't know if it's good or bad this time," said Teo, her hair shorn short from the long black locks she had sported when Bimji had last seen her. The courtesan's dress was replaced with a simple wrap. Gauntlets of woven twine wrapped her forearms. "I don't know how to explain what we saw."

"Go on," said Idala. "You didn't come all the way to Gor'ta to stare at my pretty face."

Teo exhaled. "We saw two flashes from the Mercomar over Maora. One to the north, one to the west."

"Not three? Not... eight?" said Idala.

"Neither."

Idala shrugged, and wobbled her head from side to side. "Maybe the sun went behind a cloud, or they broke a cog."

"Perhaps," said Teo. "But why would they flash to the north?"

Idala shrugged again. "Perhaps that's where your other cadre – the shy ones – are hiding?"

"Perhaps," said Teo. "But why a single flash? The Venep'o never begin or end their transmissions without an 'all is clear.'"

"Maybe, whoever did the flashing was murdered, mid-flash," said Bimji.

Teo looked at Idala, but said nothing.

"So send someone to find out," said Idala.

"That's why I came," said Teo. "The east is treacherous these days. Every clan has a Polu. A small party would never make it through. We need to send a force."

"Why us?" said Idala. "You have other Nalkies?"

"Yes, but they're preoccupied," said Teo. "A new contingent of Crasacs has arrived in Verden. We're sending a raid to welcome them—to make them cower and love their barracks more than outside adventures. Though, it will provide a nice distraction to allow another group to slip through the marshes."

"So you need us," said Idala, looking over the two-score plus of her band of fighters. "I suppose we're ready to travel." She looked over to the bedding and breeches spread and drying on the boulders. "The washing's done, anyhow."

"We've also sent runners to mobilize the clans in the back hills," said Teo. "We may end up needing their assistance, if this signal turns out to be real."

"Where, exactly, do you plan to go?" said Bimji, shouldering in front of Teo.

"East of the marshes," said Teo. "To the border hills perhaps. Just a reconnoiter, in force."

"I'm coming along," said Bimji.

"There's no guarantee we'll go anywhere near your valley," said Teo. "A group like this, we'd have a hard time getting past Raacevo."

"I don't care," said Bimji. "I'm coming."

"What do you think Idala?" said Teo. "Is he recovered enough?"

"You try and make him stay," said Idala. "Then come tell me if you think he's recovered."

Chapter 22: Retreat

Vul dragged Canu away from the heliograph and tossed him against the decking.

"Let me finish!" said Canu. "We need seven more flashes... at least."

"No time," said Vul. "The garrison's here." He swung his axe against the wooden frame cradling the heliograph's main mirror, and cleft cleanly through a strut. The mirror swung down and dangled like a pendulum. A second blow cut it free and it fell clanking onto the platform.

The old man looked on moon-faced, as if he had just witnessed the murder of his grandson.

Vul glared at him. "You. Get up. You're coming with us."

"I'm no threat to you," said the old man. "Let me stay."

"Come along or lose your head, your choice." Vul raised his axe.

The old man scrambled on his knees towards the ladder. Canu followed, grumbling under his breath.

Vul's detachment had arrayed themselves in an arc around the summit. Feril, Ara and the other fighters remained just below tree line, sniping at the Crasac laborers who, finding themselves sandwiched, fled through the gap between the forces.

Vul whistled and his fighters melted away, retreating down towards tree line to rejoin the main body of fighters.

Ara stepped out of the trees and confronted Canu. "One flash?" said Ara. "That's all you could manage?"

The critique stung Canu. He had been expecting praise. "Technically, it was two," he said.

"We ran out of time," said Vul. "A large force is moving up from the garrison. They'll be upon us soon."

"How large... is large?" asked Ara.

"Twice our number," said Vul. "Maybe more."

Ara turned to Feril. "Collect the wounded," she said. "Send them first down the ravine. We'll hang back to screen and delay the pursuit."

Feril nodded and went off to organize the retreat.

Ara crinkled her nose at the prisoner. "Who is this?"

"He's the station master of this Mercomar," said Vul.

"A traitor from Sesei," said Canu. "Ijaji, anyhow."

"What are we to do with him?" said Ara.

"I don't know," said Canu. "Hold him for ransom? Make him wash our feet?"

Ara sighed as a contingent of limping and moaning soldiers filtered past them. Feril had arranged the main body of his force in a broad fan behind the trees.

"Here they come!" said Vul, squinting up at the summit, where a long line of pikes had appeared as if the mountain had grown spines.

"Prepare a volley," said Ara. "We'll hold our ground until the wounded make it farther along."

Feril passed the order. Chants to Cra, muffled by wind and summit, resounded from behind the Mercomar tower. Clusters of pike-wielding Crasacs in the vanguard began to probe ahead.

"Count off in ones and two," said Ara. "When I give the order to shoot, ones volley and retreat, twos follow on my second call."

The Crasacs swarmed one way and then the other, before pouring over the top, the tower parting their formation like a stick in a stream. They charged down the slope, leading with leveled pikes, sabers following."

"Now?" asked Feril, when the pikers reached halfway between summit and entrenchments.

"Not quite," said Ara, unsure how far their arrows and bolts would travel against the stiff wind.

"Ones!" shouted Canu.

"No!" said Ara.

Bolts and arrows let loose up the slope, some slamming into the boulders and heath, most arcing over the entrenchments into the pike men, some clattering against shields, some finding flesh. Several Crasacs fell.

Half of Feril's militia peeled away down slope, while the others prepared the next volley.

The pikers barreled on without pause over the unfinished entrenchments.

"Two!" said Ara. The second volley sprang forth and dropped a few more.

"Look over there," said Feril.

A separate contingent of Cuerti headed down to the ridge on their flank that overlooked the ravine.

"Retreat! Now!" said Ara, as the pikers closed in.

Feril amplified her order down the line, and the rest of his force melted into the firs.

***

Injured fighters and their helpers cluttered a narrow path hugging the wall of the ravine. The long thin line of straggling militia was vulnerable and would be chewed up in any concerted attack. Ara feared the worst.

High on the ridge, Cuerti paralleled their line of retreat, moving at a pace that would overtake them.

"They're trying to cut us off," said Vul.

"But how many can there be?" said Canu, raising the stub of his broken saber. "A few more than a dozen? No worries. We can take them on. As Ara knows, I've faced Cuerti before."

"This is a bit different than finishing off a man with half the blood drained out of him," said Ara.

"That's exactly my point," said Canu. "Cuerti are only men," said Canu. "Large men. But same as us, they bleed."

"Get me some marksmen," said Vul. "I'll keep them at bay."

"Get me a bow and I'll join you," said Canu.

"Never mind," said Vul. "We all know how well you shoot."

Feril scanned the mob ahead of them on the path. "I'll assemble a few of my best."

A thick, dark-fletched bolt skittered across the talus.

"Where did that come from?" said Ara.

"Cuerti. They're filtering down to snipe at us," said Vul.

"I'll get him," said Canu, swinging up around a boulder. Another bolt whisked through the spot where he had stood."

"Get down!" said Ara. She sprang up and sent an arrow into the space between two boulders where she had spotted a flash of blue. It struck only sod.

"Keep an eye on that prisoner. He's trying to sneak off," said Vul.

Several of Feril's sharpshooters came up, stalking. When the sniper popped up to shoot, a pair of arrows converged on his chest. His crossbow went clattering across the stones. The Cuerti tumbled, coming to rest against a cedar.

Branches snapped, bushes rattled and stones clattered down behind them. The Crasacs from the garrison had continued their pursuit and were closing in on them. The Cuerti had gotten ahead of the retreat and were cutting down into the ravine to block them.

"We have to climb the opposite ridge," said Feril. "There's no choice."

"Someone's already there," said Canu, craning up at the shapes moving along the ridge top, silhouetted by a bright sky. "I see fighters."

"Cuerti?" said Vul.

"Can't tell," said Canu. "But they're coming this way."

"We need to flee. Save ourselves!" said Feril.

"No," said Ara. "We fight, as far as we can. If we resist hard enough, maybe we'll encourage them to give up the chase. If we run, it will guarantee a slaughter."

The Crasacs pursuing them pressed home their attack, plunging recklessly down the ravine.

"We'll be crushed," said Feril.

"Maybe not," said Canu. "Those fighters on the opposite ridge? They're not Cuerti."

"A small blessing," said Ara.

"And they're not Crasacs," said Vul.

"What? Who—"

"Nalkies!" said Feril, the fire in his eyes replenished.

"Are we sure they're not Polus?" said Ara.
Chapter 23: Ravine

Mounted fighters swarmed the down opposite slope of the ravine, their sturdy ponies as nimble as mountain goats over the loose stone.

"Who are they? Can anyone tell?" said Ara. "Are they attacking us... or them?"

"These are not Polus," said Vul. "I see no flags. No fists of Cra."

Once the riders swept by the retreating militia and let loose with their longbows, their identity was no longer a question. They targeted the Crasac pikers leading the assault, aiming low to defeat their armor and dropping them with terrible efficiency. The riders drew their blades as they closed in on the stunned and disordered Crasacs.

"Rally your fighters!" said Ara.

Feril's whistle pierced the air. The militia fanned out and swarmed back up the hill, converging with the Nalkies against a Crasac front gone ragged in pursuit over rough terrain.

The determined and coordinated counterattack broke the Crasacs' will. Those at the fore turned and scurried back up the headwall. The Nalkies chased them all the way up to the rim of the headwall before arresting their charge.

The Cuerti on the ridge, on seeing their support crumble, halted their descent, aborting their attempt to block the retreat. The militia's walking wounded trickled through a constriction in the ravine below them.

As the Nalki riders formed a protective umbrella, a small entourage separated from the main body and came back down the slope. Ara raised her hand to them and they veered in her direction.

The Nalki leader, wearing a dark veil over his beard, hopped off his pony and bumped shoulders with Feril and Ara with gusto, and nodded to Canu and Vul.

"Who are you people?" he said.

"We are... well, I am Cadre from Sesei," said Ara. "Captain Feril here leads this militia force."

"I am Igwa," said the Nalki leader, touching fingertips to forearm and taking Ara's hand. "We had been told that the Sesep'o had come. Until now, I had refused to believe it." He spoke an odd Giep'o dialect, employing a vocabulary more common to elders in these parts.

"Was it our signal that summoned you?" said Canu.

"What signal?" said Igwa.

"They can't have responded this quickly to your silly flash," said Vul.

"You've been following us, haven't you?" said Ara.

Igwa nodded. "We saw you come from the forest. In the twilight, we thought you were Crasacs."

"Fitting," said Canu. "We worried that you might be Cuasars."

"Why is it you attack this Mercomar with so few?" said Igwa.

Ara shrugged. "We underestimated its defenses."

"Captain Feril mistook the Crasacs for slaves," said Canu, sniggering, drawing a glare from Ara.

"Where do you come from?" said Vul.

"From afar," said Igwa. "East of Maora. The lands below beneath the sharp-toothed hills."

"I didn't realize anyone lived there," said Vul. "It looks... empty."

"We call our land Gabahr—the edge of the world," said Igwa. "But the land is good enough for us. But even farther east, where there is only desert, there are rumors of peoples.

"What brings you out west?" said Ara.

"Our watchers saw smoke in the valley," said Igwa. "We come to see what mischief the Venep'o make. We saw them take Maora. We want to be ready when they come to our land. We have just been to Raacevo to spy on their new garrisons, and we were just now returning home. When we saw your fighters, we followed."

"We're very glad you intervened," said Ara. "We were in a tight spot."

"There are more of you?" said Igwa.

"Many more," said Ara. "And we hope to see them soon. We intended this attack as a call to arms."

"Call to arms, heh." said the prisoner. "A call to arms, alright. You kept the 'all clear' from flashing. The garrisons in Raacevo must be going crazy. Every Crasac and Cuasar in the colonies is probably mobilizing. Your days are numbered."

"Who's watching this one?" said Ara, looking about, flustered. "Keep the prisoner away from us when we speak." One of Feril's sergeants hauled the old man away.

Ara glanced up the ridge, where enemy movement was still evident. The Cuerti were spying, probing—seeking a weak spot to strike.

"We had better keep moving," said Ara.

***

Ara had Feril establish camp behind the same ridge on which the militia had rested on the eve of the attack, one night before. Feril took pains to establish a secure perimeter in case the enemy became adventurous, but so far there was no sign that they were interested in moving off their mountain.

Of the hundred plus a score soldiers who had gone up the mountain, ninety-odd had returned. But stragglers continued to trickle in and Ara hoped they would get their strength back over a hundred.

Pari teamed up with both of Feril's healers to attend to the wounded. An armed rescue party bearing makeshift litters went back up the ravine to search for fighters who had been left behind in the hasty retreat.

Feril's militia had given worse than they had gotten, but she would need every fighter they could get if the Cuasars came screaming out of Raacevo as the prisoner predicted.

She was pleased to learn that Igwa had decided to stick with them. Though, he dispatched a quarter of his riders to parts unknown, a total of thirty or so remained behind.

They were a motley group in terms of age, gender and class. Many clans were represented in the colors and patterns of the scarves and veils many wore to honor mates and matriarchs back home.

They pooled their modest provisions with the militia and supplemented dinner with small game and berries acquired from the adjacent copses and meadows. Now that the enemy had no doubt as to their presence, fires were allowed.

Ara left Feril and Pari to their tasks and wandered through the encampment. She came upon Vul and Canu attempting to interrogate their prisoner.

"You're no slave," said Canu. "Nor are you a mechanic, so stop pretending. We know you're the station master. Every Mercomar must have one."

"Do they?" said the old man.

"You know they do," said Canu.

"I do?"

"What is your name, old man?" said Vul.

"Call me Rabelmeni, if you must have a name," said the prisoner. "That's how many here know me."

"How many names do you have?" said Vul.

"As many as I need," said Rabelmani.

Ara tugged Canu's shirt. "Come. I need to talk with you."

"This man's worthless to us," said Canu.

"Let me work on him alone," whispered Vul. "You can't seem to keep from squabbling."

"It's not me, it's his fault!" said Canu.

Ara led him over to the red car, still partially hidden under a pile of cut shrubbery. They climbed into the front seats and slammed the doors. Curious militia eyes followed them. Ara tossed a bedroll into the back.

"Are you sleeping in here?"

"Why not? It's better than the hard ground."

Ara studied his scraped and bloodied face; his lively, shifty eyes.

"What you did was foolish," she said. "You should never have gone off on your own like that."

"But if I hadn't," said Canu. "No message would have been sent."

"What message? No message went out. All you managed to do was damage the Mercomar."

"That one flash went far and wide. It's going to make people think. Especially when that Mercomar stays dark at sign-off tonight."

"They'll just think it's broken," said Ara. "The point is, Canu, you put all of us in jeopardy. The moment we realized these were soldiers, not slaves, I intended to retreat."

"And if you had, what would have happened to Vul and his detachment?"

Ara looked at him blankly.

"They would have been slaughtered, wouldn't they?" said Canu.

"But you can't have known this in advance," said Ara. "This is just how things turned out."

"Things happen for a reason," said Canu.

"You were... we were... lucky, that's all," said Ara.

Wind whistled through the sliver of window Canu had left open. Clouds rose like towers over the mountains.

"I'm going back to the marshes," said Ara. "To see if the militias are mobilizing. Baren's steward, Commander Ingar, is a very cautious man."

"I'll go with you," said Canu.

"No," said Ara. "I can't be seen with the likes of you."

"Just to the edge of the marshes. I'll escort you."

"Don't need an escort. I'm better off alone."

"It's risky," said Canu. "What if they link you to Feril's missing company?"

"How?" said Ara. "They think I am in Ur with Baren."

"Someone might have deserted," said Canu. "An informer. A spy."

Ara shook her head. "Doubtful. Feril keeps close tabs on his muster."

"If Feril suspects us, he could have sent a runner."

"Possible," said Ara, gnawing her lip. "Though, he's been awfully compliant."

Canu exhaled deeply. "I don't like this idea at all."

"Then what do you suggest?" said Ara. "Sit here and wait for the Cuasars to crush us?"

"We can return to the marsh camps... all of us... together," said Canu. "Sort things out."

"Impossible," said Ara. "I can't be seen with you all. You are counterforce in their eyes. All of us would be executed for treason, sedition."

"But if you go alone... you face the same risk."

"Going alone, I give them no reason to suspect anything. None of Baren's party crossed over to Sesei. I am the only one to return to Gi, and likely the only survivor."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Wait and watch," said Ara. "Find some place away from the eyes on that mountain, but where you can see what's coming down the road from Raacevo."

"How will you find us?"

"If all goes well," said Ara. "You will find me... marching at the head of two thousand militia, I hope."

Canu fidgeted, wrapping and unwrapping a strap around his finger.

"You have to promise... not to follow me, no matter what happens," said Ara.

"I'll give you one day head start, and then—"

"Don't you dare!" said Ara. "They catch you, they'll kill you. Promise you won't follow. No matter how long I'm gone."

"How can I promise such a thing?" said Canu.

"You must!" Ara's eyes homed in on Canu's – fierce, pleading

"What if something bad happens to you? How will I know?"

"Worse things will happen if you follow," said Ara. "Guaranteed. Questions will be raised. Connections will be drawn."

"Fine," said Canu, pressing his lips tight. "I'll stay put."

Ara studied Canu's face. He looked serious, more so than she had ever seen him. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, reaching out blindly, finding his hand.
Chapter 24: Tending to Tom

Frank wandered alone through the lower terraces. He felt out of place and in the way up at the house, and the wails of mourners had rendered the loft unbearable. Once again, the barn had become a morgue. Another refugee had died of his injuries while Frank was away in the hills. There was nothing Frank could have done to help the poor soul. The man had a severely fractured skull with swelling in his brain and had been in a coma for days.

Tezhay had led a group a group of volunteers up into the meadows for rifle training. Their dull reports echoed off the pinnacle and rebounded through the vale. Tezhay's little private army included several adolescent girls, a toothless man and a pregnant mother of three, all recruited from among the huddled masses on Liz's porch.

As Frank strolled along the terrace walls, the quantity and variety of sweet peas that Liz had managed to grow here amazed him. Solid and variegated, every shade from crimson and blue plus some so dark they looked almost black. They shed a perfume almost as peppery as it was sweet.

The ropy-stemmed, large-leafed vines seemed much more robust than the wimpy plants Liz tried to grow in Ithaca the summer after their marriage. The ones she had planted in Rio Frio ended up withering and dying soon after her disappearance, through no fault of Frank's. He had watered them plenty in hopes of Liz's rescue and return. They simply weren't suited to grow in Belize.

Misty came strolling across a field with a pair of baskets stacked with pale roots flaunting hairy appendages. They looked like a cross between ginseng and horse radish. Frank diverted his aimless meandering to intercept her path, to offer a hand.

"Is this gonna be our dinner?" said Frank.

"You got it, mister," she said, handing him a basket to carry. "Goes great with goat."

"Ah, so there's one less to the herd?"

"'Fraid so," she said. "Not the best season for slaughter, with the rut an all goin' on, but we got no choice. Mouths to feed and all."

"Meat," said Frank. "What a concept."

"Been a while for you, huh?"

"Days."

"Well, don't get your hopes up," said Misty. "It's just mince for the stew and bones for tomorrow's broth."

They walked side by side out to the lane.

"What you doing hanging out in this field all by yourself, anyhow?" said Misty. "Got a thing against hanging with people or something?"

"Not at all," said Frank. "I just... didn't want to get on Liz's nerves. She seems anxious when I'm around."

"You blame her?"

"No," said Frank. "Not at all."

"Well, you ain't gonna make things better by hidin.'"

"Yeah, I suppose not."

"Come on up to the house," said Misty. "You can help me chop these roots up. You can tell her I told you."

"Thanks," said Frank, in a quiet voice.

***

Frank hovered in and around the cook shack, volunteering for whatever errands Misty needed done, peeling roots, fetching wood, making himself useful but unobtrusive, another cog in the farm's machinery.

He snuck glimpses of Liz as she shuffled between the house and barns. Mostly, she ignored him, but once, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her watching him. When he turned to engage her, she blinked away, flustered, re-erecting her flinty façade.

Frank wondered whether, with patience and time, some semblance of their old relationship could be restored. Of course, he could never bring back how they were as newlyweds in Ithaca or even later in Rio Frio. That would have been impossible even if they had stayed together all those years.

But Frank suspected and hoped that some remnant of their early attraction could salvaged or rebuilt, that some dormant seed of the way they were could be germinated and cultivated like sweet pea seeds carried between worlds in the bottom of a purse.

And if he was wrong, his soul could gain enough sustenance from her proximity alone.

Ellie came bustling around the house with a stack of bowls she had washed, many bearing traces of the grit she used to scrub them. She stopped and stared down the lane.

"Will you look at that?" she said.

Frank turned. Miles was coming up the lane, the AK-74 dangling low from its shoulder strap. His body sagged. Red rimmed his eyes.

Liz came up to the porch rail.

"Thought I made Bimji get rid of that damned gun," she said. "The Crasacs find out what that thing does, they'll be on us like jackals on a carcass."

"But... aren't you curious where it came from?" said Frank. "How it got here?"

"I know damn well where it came from," said Liz, glaring. "And I don't give a crap how it got here."

Tezhay returned from his impromptu riflery course, leading his little ragtag army of volunteers wielding a mix of real AKs and paintball replicas. He had thrown together an impromptu riflery course in the meadows.

Miles gaped from the porch rail. "Holy shit!" He laughed. "Where'd all those come from?"

"Same place as yours, I reckon," said Misty. "Who's watching the cliffs?"

"No worries," said Miles. "There's plenty of eyes down there. And things are quiet. Nothing in those woods but squirrels and deer."

"Deer?" said Liz. "You saw a deer and didn't shoot it? And now you're expecting your supper, I bet?"

"I was saving on the ammo... in case... you know." Miles plopped down heavily onto the edge of the porch.

Liz made a sign of the cross and rolled her eyes. She picked a small pot of boiled moss from the cinders and went around the back of the house.

Frank watched her go every step of the way. "I'm gonna... go peek in on Tom," he said.

"Go ahead," said Misty, winking. "I got things under control."

***

Frank slipped through the curtain. Liz watched him enter, her eyes neutral and calm, almost disinterested, but with no trace of hostility. She sat by Tom's bed, wafting a fan of thin wooden slats. When Frank's gaze lingered in hers a little too long, her focus went soft and shifted to the wedge of sky visible above the curtain.

Tom was breathing rapidly, a disturbing sign. Frank went over and felt his forehead, touched a finger to his neck.

"A bit thready and quick," said Frank.

"His fever's up," said Liz.

"Certainly is; has he vomited?"

"Nothing in his stomach but a spot of tea."

"Doesn't matter."

"He's kept it down," said Liz.

"That's good."

"How long does that stuff you gave him take to work?"

"Longer than it's been," said Frank. "I was gonna give him give him another dose tonight."

Frank whisked back the moth-eaten blanket that covered Tom.

"Easy," said Liz.

"Just checking," Frank lifted the bandage. It still burned red, and a rosy blotch was beginning to extend from the entry wound.

"He's got a touch of cellulitis going."

"Which is?"

"Skin infection," said Frank. "But I'm not too worried. I think we got the jump on it." He fished out a wad of boiled moss, still warm, from the bottom of a little, clay pot and replaced Tom's dressing."

"You're helpless here, aren't you?" said Liz, wearing a cruel smile. "No pharmacy... no fancy equipment, no lab. Even at Rio Frio, you had those things. But it's a whole 'nother kind of doctoring required here, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't call it helpless," said Frank. "There's still plenty I can do. Maybe not... surgery."

"Why not? Ellie does. She's even done amputations. Snips off mangled fingers. Cleans 'em out. Sews folks up tight and pretty."

Frank studied Tom's face. Ellie looked more like Liz than Tom. But perhaps Tom shared her freckles, the slight upturn of nose. But there was something else in his face he had seen before. Something familiar.

"Could he be ours, Liz?" said Frank. "Tom?"

Liz looked stunned. She stared at the floor, folding and unfolding her fan over and over, revealing the dense, cursive inscriptions inking its slats.

Frank saw how skittish she was and didn't want to run her off. He didn't push it. "What's that you got there?" he said, changing the subject.

"Poems," said Liz, her gaze fixed at her feet. "It was a gift. They're written in Russian, and I can actually read them. Can you believe it? Me, the language dunce. Fluent in Giep'o and proficient in Russian."

Frank's eyes went wide and he sat upright, feeling around for the slab caught between the seams of his jacket. It had bounced on his hip ever since he left Raacevo—the stack of cardboard-thin wooden shingles he had rescued from destruction in Sibara's hearth. The ribbon had loosened, allowing them to fan out like a deck of cards.

"Here," said Frank, stretching to hand them to Liz.

She looked at him as if he had just pulled a rabbit out of his ass. "Where did you get these?"

"Raacevo. Some guy named Kovalev."

"Gennadi," said Liz. "He wrote the poems that are written on my fan. But... I heard they took him away ... to Venen."

"They did," said Frank. "But he left these behind. Just promise you won't burn them."

"Burn them? Are you nuts?" She undid the ribbon and shuffled through the stack. "These... are precious." She clutched them to her chest. "Thank you."
Chapter 25: Moving Out

Raindrops pitter-pattered on the roof of the car, waking Ara from a brief nap. The sun emerged from a passing shower, its radiance gilding a patchwork of dark clouds rebuilding.

Eyes bleary, she reached for Canu in the driver's seat, her hand patting instead a clump of baby mushrooms and wild gooseberries he had left on the seat for her. She nibbled at a few and tucked the rest into her satchel.

She got out and looked around for him, coming upon Pari under a willow with Feril's healers, splinting the ankle of a young man with a blood-smeared face.

"The rescue party just returned," said Pari. "He's the last one. They found him in the ravine, hiding behind a boulder."

"How many did we lose?" said Ara.

"Seventeen, dead or missing," said Pari. "The Nalkies lost three."

Ara's eyes scanned the array of pierced and broken bodies lining the track.

"How many fit to fight?"

Pari shrugged. "Ninety... or so, I suppose. Not counting Igwa's."

Vul and Feril came walking down the track briskly, Canu trailing behind them.

"Igwa's patrol just returned," said Vul. "They made contact with a party of Crasac scouts testing our flank."

"They'll be attacking sooner than later, if we stay put," said Ara. "We'd better get moving. The injured, are they fit to travel?"

"Fit as we could make them," said Pari. "We've made a few litters for those who need carrying."

"Canu says you're leaving us," said Feril.

Ara took a breath. "We need to contact the camp."

"Why not send a runner?"

"No. It has to be me," said Ara. "Commander Ingar might need encouragement to mobilize."

"Makes sense," said Feril. "We left sixteen behind for sick call and camp duty. It would be nice to have them back."

Ara smiled weakly and nodded. She didn't dare tell him that his detached fighters had likely been absorbed into other companies under the assumption that Feril's group had been lost or destroyed.

"Don't engage the enemy if at all possible," she said. "I'll return as soon as I can."

Canu hovered at the back of the group, his eyes avoiding Ara's.

"At least let me put together an escort for you," said Feril.

"No need," said Ara. "I'll move swifter and stealthier on my own," said Ara, her eyes glancing quickly off Canu's as she slipped between the trees lining the track.

***

Unable to find as much as a game path that didn't peter out after a few steps, Ara made slow progress. She gingerly forded a rain-swollen creek, fought her way through a shrub-choked hollow, pushed up a hillside through densely packed conifers, snapping through tangles of dead branches.

With relief she emerged, sweaty and panting, onto a sparsely-treed hilltop. Hut-sized blocks of granite studding the glade, each like an island clothed in moss and shrub and dwarf conifers. A pleasant jolt of recognition struck her. The stones were old friends, marking the outer limits of routine patrols around the camps' perimeter. On rainy patrols, she had sometimes taken cover under the overhangs of these pocket castles.

Ara located her favorite 'island,' an erratic as large as a Venep'o war wagon, its central dimple bearing a rain pool fringed with tall grasses and a few small trees, the perfect perch for a scout.

She found her secret staircase, knobs of smoky quartz, and hauled herself up, settling into her favorite spot. Not a leaf was shredded, not a grass blade bent. None had visited the boulder top since her last stay in the middle of the dry season.

She bent her head and drank from a rain pool pocking the deep end of the dimple, ignoring the wiggling larvae that fled from her lips.

Her stomach rumbled, remembering meals taken on patrol. She wondered how well they ate in the marsh camps these days. Not any better than before, she imagined, but at least they maintained a supply line to Ubabaor, which allowed the import of treats otherwise unavailable in Gi, like pepper nuts and brittle fish.

She rolled onto her back and shut her eyes, but hard as she tried, she could not force herself to relax. The seventeen dead or missing fighters weighed heavily on her conscience. The failed raid had been her idea; her initiative had led them up that mountain to their end. Without her, Feril's fighters would likely be snug in their bunkers right now.

She sat upright, thinking of the hordes of Cuasars that might be thundering down the road from Raacevo, bearing down on her friends. Their fate could be tethered to her success in the marsh camps. She slid off the boulder and resumed her trek.

Familiar or not, the rumpled and repetitive terrain made it easy to lose one's way. Thankfully, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds often enough for Ara to keep her bearing. She kept to a westward vector that should intersect the rough track leading to the marshes, where they had originally met up and absconded with Feril's force.

Time after time, false paths fooled her: strips of forest logged long ago, abandoned trails. The sun began to dip. Ara's heart pounded with sickly uncertainty. She pressed on. And then: the sound of an axe striking wood.

She trotted towards the source, abandoning all caution.

"Halt!" Shrill voices challenged her.

Ara looked about. These sentries were well hidden.

"State your name and purpose!"

Ara whistled the old pass code and hoped it was recognized. No trace of the bulwarks lay within view. These new defenders, sent to fill the vacuum left by Feril and his fighters, apparently maintained their perimeter deep and tight.

Two sentries emerged disguised in bits of forest, weapons drawn, drawing beads on her torso. "Name and purpose!"

"Arahelios. Second Expeditionary. Returning from Ur."

"She's cadre," snapped one of the sentries, and they relaxed their weapons.

"I'm just passing through," said Ara. "I bear a message for Commander Ingar."

"All who pass must be vetted through Captain Dalii. Ingar's orders."

"Understood," said Ara.

The sentry led Ara up and over the rise, onto the main track. They had been busy removing trees to clear a killing zone and extending the bulwarks on both flanks.

A whistle brought Captain Dalii out of the command bunker that had been Feril's. Ara recognized her. Dalii had attended one of Ara's Giep'o language tutorials in camp. Dalii's militia was one of the few units deriving from Piliar, the island province least affected by the Venep'o invasion, and thus still had a home province to defend, unlike Suul.

Dalii bumped Ara's shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. Dalii peered down the track. "Is Commander Baren with you?"

"I come alone," said Ara.

"What happened?" said Dalii.

"We had... complications. I'm sorry, it's confidential," said Ara. "For Ingar's ears only."

"Understood," said Dalii, her face stiffening. "I didn't mean to pry, but these are strange days. The unit that defended this post before us, vanished. No evidence of a struggle. Just took their things and left, it seems."

Ara gazed through the trees up at the mountain bearing the heliograph station. "Have you noticed... the Mercomar?"

"That it stays dark?" said Dalii. "Yet another strangeness."

"How is the camp reacting?"

Dalii shrugged. "I wouldn't know," she said. "We've received no runners."

"I'm afraid I can't linger," said Ara. "I need to see Commander Ingar."

"Do you require an escort?"

"I know the way," said Ara. "Have the pass codes changed?"

"Not yet," said Dalii. "But they will soon."

Ara patted Dalii's shoulder and set off past the bulwarks. The track steadily descended into the great bowl that held the marshes. Scores of uprooted trees blocked the path, felled on purpose to thwart Cuasars.

Cellar holes marked the former homesteads of the Giep'o who had tried to give this land a go. From the Giep'o perspective this land was uninhabitable: too wet to till except in drought, soil so poor it required two seasons fallow for every season planted. Even the grazing was poor: indigestible grass with saw-toothed, silica-studded blades. Suited only for hunting, that resource had been depleted by the thousands of militia encamped in the wastes.

Tree ferns infiltrated the trees, fronds arching over the track to form green tunnels. Rivulets popped out of the duff, trickled over the surface and disappeared into holes and crevices. Trees tippy-toed on buttressed roots.

Ara smelled the marshes before she saw them—a mix of peat smoke and decay. Dead wood became sparser. Signs of foot traffic increased: scuffed leaf litter, trampled grass, divots in the dirt. The understory released its grip.

Ara felt eyes upon her. She whistled the pass code.
Chapter 26: The Crossroads

His mood as grey as the burgeoning clouds, Canu lifted the rear hatch of the red car and lowered the seats. Pari and her fellow healers hefted three of the more severely wounded patients, one at a time, into the bay, cushioning them with wadded clothing and bunches of grass.

Canu went forward and slumped into the driver's seat. The sight of Ara glancing back before she disappeared into the trees hung in his mind. The image joined a gallery of similar indelible moments: his brother's hand grasping at air as a river swept him away; the last time he ever saw his parents, standing together under a lintel, days before Crasac shock troops over-ran their town.

The bulk of Feril's force had already advanced down the goat track. Feril lingered behind with a small squad to protect the healers as they dealt with a difficult case – a woman with a mangled leg, whose bleeding resisted all stanching.

Pari came up and hopped into the seat beside Canu, slamming the door.

"Easy," said Canu.

"Don't worry, your precious isn't made of eggshells." Pari scrunched her eyes at him. "Just making sure it closes."

Fighters ran past. Feril came to the window.

"Better get moving. We have Crasacs coming up the back of the ridge."

"Where are we going?" said Canu.

"Just follow us. You'll see," said Feril, running off.

"I heard we're going to the crossroads," said Pari. "To the heights across the river."

"Makes sense," said Canu. "Good place to watch the road and defend."

"Defend?" said Pari, shuddering. "I think I've had my fill of fighting."

"It's not like we're not looking for a fight," said Canu. "But if we're going to hide somewhere, it should be defensible, no?"

Pari looked straight ahead. "Seor would never have let us take part in such a travesty. Charging up a bloody mountain with no idea what's up there and no idea what to do once we got there?"

Feril banged his fist on the front of the car. His eyes were wide and anxious. Canu punched the button that brought the car alive.

"Madness," said Pari, tucking her knees beneath her on the seat. She sighed. "At least this thing still goes. But for how long?"

"She had a nice, long rest," said Canu. "She should be feeling sprightly."

"She?" Pari scrunched her face at him.

The car jerked forward, shedding branches camouflaging the roof.

"Easy on the bumps," said Pari. "We carry fragile cargo."

***

Several roads and trails converged on Xama, the plundered town whose ruins still smoldered when they passed through several days earlier. The main road, empty but for ruined carts and a stray donkey, led to Sinta, the other destroyed village several bends downriver, and then onward to Raacevo. In the other direction, it climbed a series of switchbacks, following the river through a rugged defile, over a pass to Maora. Igwa had already sent a band of riders up to block it.

Feril's force waited out of sight on the goat track for their scouts to give the all clear. When the whistle came, they proceeded forward through what remained of the village. Hardly a structure remained standing. Carcasses of livestock, disemboweled, bones bared by jackals and vultures, littered the yards. Weeds infested eerily vacant fields.

The militia fighters hurried to the river and rushed across the causeway. They trotted up the road that led to the high pass and the bog that once held the xenolith that had brought Canu and his friends from Greymore, veering off into the high pastures.

Canu and Pari brought up the rear in the red car. The water had risen since they had last crossed – knee-deep or deeper in places. Its opacity made it difficult to place the edge of the causeway.

"Maybe we can leave the vehicle on this side?" said Pari.

"No," said Canu, watching the causeway until it was entirely clear of stragglers. He stomped on the pedal. The wheels whinnied like an overworked horse as they surged towards the river. Pari grabbed onto her seat, cowering.

They splashed in nose-first. Water gushed beneath the doors. The car plowed across the causeway, fighting against the current. Its rear end shimmied.

"To the right!" said Pari. "It doglegs right."

Canu spotted the curl of water that marked the drop-off just in time to jerk the wheel. The back wheel slipped over the edge. The front wheels slipped on the slick stone, but conjured just enough friction to grip and pull. The car emerged onto the sandy approach like an egg-bound sea turtle.

Their wounded passengers groaned.

"You damned fool!" said Pari. "We might have drowned."

"Oh shush, it wasn't that close," said Canu.

"Next time, I'll walk, thank you."

***

Canu hid the car behind a dense thicket of thorns on the hillside overlooking the causeway. Feril and Igwa had led their forces above the fields and pastures and into the forest that clothed the heights. This position commanded a view down the river valley to the meander just beyond Sinta. Along the horizon, the white dome of the Alar's Temple gleamed atop its denuded bluff.

Canu walked along the stone wall separating pasture from woodland. A windbreak of slender trees separated the sweeping pasture from the undulant beet fields lining the river. The grass was already growing long in the absence of livestock.

Feril's fighters were already hard at work, splitting their labors mending and augmenting the already stout wall and setting up camp behind it. With an open and steeply pitched slope before it, the wall made a formidable strongpoint. The need not worry about Cuasar attacks from the rear. Nothing backed them but unbroken coniferous forest.

Canu came across the prisoner, Rabelmani, tethered to a tree with half a dozen militia fighters gathered around him. He wandered over to see what the commotion was about, but it seemed that the old man was merely telling stories of his travels.

"As a merchant mariner, I've been everywhere a man can go," he said. "There's no manner of man or woman I haven't seen. And no empire greater than the Dominion of Cra."

"Have you seen the southern ice?" said a young woman with a bloody chin.

"Of course, I've seen the southern ice," said Rabelmani. "That's where the sacred whale bone comes from. You might just as well call it the southern fire, because that land is both ice and fire, with mountains that smoke by day and glow by night."

"What about the Eastern ocean?" said a squat young man. "How far beyond the straits have you gone?"

"As far East as the winds would take me," said Rabelmani. "To the doldrums and their islands in their midst, peopled by races from lands even farther East, continents filled with those who have yet to know the dominion of Cra. Oh, but they will. All of them. One day they'll beg for his Mercy. As will all of you. Some day."

"We'll leave the begging to you, old man," said Canu. "You'll find no beggars, here."

"Not yet, perhaps," said Rabelmani. "But some day you'll seek Cra's mercy willingly."

"You're not as traveled as you like to think," said Canu. "Each one of us here has been places you've never been. Places you'll never see in the days you have remaining."

Rabelmani looked skeptical. "Oh? And what places might these be?"

"Ur," said Canu, and he continued on his way, snatching only a glimpse of the puzzlement in Rabelmani's eyes.

Canu found Vul building a shelter out of spruce boughs and lent him a hand, twining layer over layer to roof it, though Canu knew it would leak regardless in any significant rainstorm. But he wouldn't have to worry about that. He had the car to sleep in, after all.

A party of Nalkies went galloping by on their ponies.

"Where are they off to, I wonder?" said Canu.

"Feril says they're going after elk," said Vul.

"Meat!" said Canu. "My stomach wishes them great success. I'd even pray for the Mercy of Cra if I thought it would help their hunt."

"Care for some Nalki bread?" said Vul. "Someone gave me a few crusts, but honestly, I'd rather chew bark."

"Have I ever said no to food?" said Canu. Vul handed over a few charred cylinders of the coarsely milled spelt that the Giep'o called bread.

He tucked them in his shirt and went back to the wall, continuing down its length to the forested gulch that truncated it. He exchanged greetings with the watch persons that Feril had posted every few dozen paces. Some tried to start up a chat but Canu wasn't feeling very sociable.

Ara's absence left him feeling antsy and hollow. He climbed up into a tree with sprawling boughs that hung out over the pasture, selecting one with a clear view out over the valley. He nibbled on some of the bread, breaking of crumbs as hard as pebbles and only slightly more digestible.

His eyes panned the landscape, passing over the river and to the forest and hills where Ara had been heading when they parted. He watched a hawk hover, and wished he could fly to Ara's side, or at least see through its eyes where she was and how she was faring. He regretted not giving her a better sendoff.
Chapter 27: The Marsh Camp

A sentry perched high in a dead tree, in the abandoned nest of a fish eagle. He answered Ara's whistle with a low, sustained rejoinder that gave her permission to proceed. Ara strode the last few steps through a green tunnel of over-arching tree fern, and the vast marshes opened up before her.

A walkway of split logs led across an open moat and through an expanse of half-submerged reeds. When Ara had last come through, a person could have easily hopped the moat's channel and strolled through the reeds. Everything had changed with the onset of the rains.

The assembly camps sprawled like a squat, grey city on a denuded island rising from a sea of reeds. Rings of shacks and shanties separated by alleys crowded slopes augmented by dredge and fill, each circle billeting a separate Provincial militia.

Ara's first impression of this wide bowl surrounded by hills was that it was a death trap, a killing field. The site had been chosen for its seclusion, not its defensibility, intended to serve as a temporary staging area for infiltrators, never a strongpoint.

As more and more troops accumulated, and the counteroffensive they were sent to initiate became postponed for reasons unstated, it became clear that the marshes themselves posed a threat to the fighters mired within their bounds.

Fell airs and gnats spawned disease. A diet heavy on roasted swamp tubers and light on meat caused led to deficiencies that caused glands to swell, bellies to bloat and skin to yellow.

Getting enough food to sustain a force of two thousand became ever more challenging. Little could be imported from Ur or Sesei through the brief and intermittent portals opened by the camp's xenolith. The deer and buffalo had long been depleted or driven away. Even the fish and rodents and marsh fowl had become increasingly scarce. Many had resorted to eating worms and frogs.

The fighters assembled at the camps were drawn mainly from the remnants of over-run, outmaneuvered defense militias from provinces that had ceased to exist in the wake of the Venep'o invasion. Most had no home to which they could return. She couldn't help thinking of the militias crowded on the island like herds of cattle in a stockyard awaiting slaughter.

Ara wound her way over a barrier of crossed tree trunks, still attached to their uprooted stumps. Gnats with legs banded black and white buzzed at her face, landed in her hair and bit her scalp. She crossed the moat on the familiar walkway to a pair of peat brick bunkers with sod roofs and vertical fighting slots.

Ara nodded to the sentries in the flanking bunkers. Sober–faced, they let her pass without challenge, though their eyes belied excitement, as if they expected her to bear some momentous news. She continued across to the island, passing through a morass of fetid pools, not yet inundated by the rising waters.

A man stood watching her from atop one of a pair of earthen observation platforms that bracketed a crude gate constructed of heavy timbers. It took Ara a moment to realize that this was Ingar himself, and she quailed a bit, unprepared to confront him so soon. Did he know she was coming, or was it his habit to stand and watch over the marshes all day like a sea captain's widow? What tact should she take? Her mind scrambled for words.

Ingar looked startled. "Where are the others? Did you come back alone?" He was extremely tall, as was common among the plainsmen of Bohangor, with sallow skin and an auburn tinge to his dark hair and beard.

"Delayed," said Ara. "Have you not heard from them?"

"Nothing," said Ingar. "Ubabaor says that two portals now have been sealed or destroyed."

The news brought Ara relief and an opportunity. She could now set the narrative without having to worry about anyone contradicting her tale.

"So where are the others?" said Ingar. "What happened out there?"

"The peace initiative... it failed," said Ara. "We are to proceed with the original protocol." She bit her lip and watched as waves of incredulity swept across Ingar's face.

"An offensive? You've got to be joking."

"No joke," said Ara. "The Venep'o betrayed us. They attacked us in Ur."

Ingar stared, stunned.

"Let me... let me gather the lieutenants. Do you carry any messages from Baren himself?"

"He had no means to prepare documents," said Ara. "I am his message."

"You've spent time in Ur before, haven't you?" said Ingar, scratching his beard.

Ara nodded. "When I was training to be a Traveler. Why?"

"Just curious, they would send you back," said Ingar. "Considering your language skills and experience with the Urep'o."

"I can't account for Baren's decisions," said Ara. "I did what I was told."

***

Ara sat at the big square table in the Commander's block house. Back in her militia days she had been one of Baren's servants and remembered when the table's rough-hewn timbers were still golden and redolent with resin. Now the wood had grayed and the splinters were polished by wear and pried by nervous fingernails.

The floor was mounded for drainage at the center of the room and covered with mats woven from the same marsh grass that formed its walls. Rolled parchments accumulated from Cadre headquarters stuffed a rack of cubbyholes by a window whose curtains failed to deter the gnats from coming in to feed.

Ingar had assembled every cadre officer in the camp, all familiar faces except for a new lieutenant recently arrived from Ubabaor – a sharp-faced woman named Drialeun. Ara chose to keep her lies simple and close to the truth.

"Sesei has not heard from Baren because the stone was destroyed," said Ara.

"We know," said Drialeun. "Two stones have been lost. As well as Comrade Eghazi, our principal negotiator."

"Who would do such a deed?" said Ingar. "I can't believe it would have been the Venep'o. Did you see any signs of a counterforce when you were in Ur?"

"It's not... clear," said Ara. "We became separated from those we were to escort. They were slaughtered by the time we found them."

"This force must still be in Ur," said Drialeun. "Because both stones in Sesei are intact."

"Or Gi," said Megar, the lieutenant in charge of the assembly areas' defenses.

"I assure you, Commander Baren will get to the bottom of it," said Ara. "He is in Ur, investigating, as we speak."

"Any indication what Province these traitors derive from?" said Ingar. "Was it Suul or Cracao perchance?"

"Unfortunately, the Urep'o became involved before we could get to the scene," said Ara, wiping her sweaty palms on her breeches. "The only casualties we saw were Venep'o."

"Diplomats?" said Drialeun.

"Crasacs," said Ara.

"Crasacs in Ur? Preposterous," said Ingar.

"But it's true," said Ara.

"I see how it might be possible," said Drialeun. "The Venep'o were opposed by forces in Sesei before they crossed. The battle could have extended across the portal."

"So you see, it has failed," said Ara. "The initiative, it has failed."

"Why do you say that?" said Ingar, squinting.

"Two stones lost," said Ara. "How many can we spare?"

Ingar and Drialeun looked at each other.

"Apparently, at least another," said Drialeun. "We have a new negotiator, crossing this time at an unannounced location, escorted from Sesei. They are confident the third attempt to transfer a xenolith will be successful."

"Our partners are proving extraordinarily resilient with us," said Ingar.

"Partners?" said Ara.

"The Venep'o," said Ingar. A servant came in and touched Ingar's arm. A pair of captains stood at the door, bearing an urgent message. Ingar excused himself and went to see his visitors.

Megar caught Ara's wandering eye. "Sounds like you've had a bit of excitement, yes?" he said, cheerily. "Not what you bargained for when Baren promoted you, eh?"

"I'm fine with it," said Ara. "But I'm surprised there isn't more excitement here, with the Mercomar going down and all."

"Oh, that?" Megar chuckled. "This morning when the blinking stopped it we had a devil of a time holding the militias at bay. Doesn't take much to get them worked up these days. An elk sighting. A bear thrashing about. We're all sick of these marshes. We just lost a whole company of skirmishers from the outer perimeter. Everyone assumes they deserted."

"It was quite a scene this morning," said Drialeun. "Captains were storming the armories, mustering their fighters. Took a lot of effort to get everyone calmed down. I pity the Venep'o if they ever show their faces here. These kids are itching for battle."

"But what about the Protocol?" Ara said, lowering her voice another notch. "What if the First Cadre responds to the Mercomar and we're not there to meet them? Shouldn't we send at least a small force to probe?"

"Protocol?" said Drialeun. "That Protocol has long expired. I'm certain the First Cadre knows this as well, if anything is left of them. Word is, they've all gone native."

"The heliograph is probably just undergoing maintenance or down for repairs," said Megar. "Unless... you know something different."

"Didn't the protocol say that the signal was to be eight flashes of eight?" said Drialeun.

"What we saw this morning was not even close," said Megar.

"And yet... the militias reacted," said Ara, as Ingar's servants came in to light candles as twilight fell over the marshes. Couriers accumulated outside in a queue, carrying the evening's muster reports.

Ingar came back to the table. "That's all for now Ara. These men will be escorting you. You're to be confined to quarters until you hear otherwise."

"But why?" said Ara.

Ingar shrugged. "Nothing personal. Just precautionary."

"Of... course," said Ara, fearful that too vigorous a protest might tar her.
Chapter 28: Sneaking Off

For the second night in a row, Miles slept alone in the cook shack. This time he lay on the floor, spooned against hearth stones that retained their warmth, though the embers they embraced had long lost their glow. He awoke not to drumbeats and curtains of rain this time, but to the raucous clank of what he presumed to be alien birdsong. What he would give to hear robins and warblers again.

He patted Tom's rifle, making sure it remained at his side and tried to fall back asleep, pulling up on a sheet as stiff and heavy as canvas to cover his shoulders. It smelled of dust.

The dawn chorus grew more cacophonous. He gave up and sat up against the hearth, watching the weeds on the hillside swirl and sway in the grey light.

Miles' anxieties had ramped far down from where they had been on the day of Tom's shooting. It was a good thing, too. That was not a condition he could sustain for long and keep his health. Now he had the luxury of entertain worries beyond saving his skin again. Things like how to find his way home.

He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. Despite his efforts to conserve the battery, only three squares of four now displayed, stirring a frisson of panic. He hoped he hadn't gotten it wet and shorted out the circuitry. He noted the absence of coverage and promptly turned it off, wincing at all the electrons draining from the battery to chime the sign-off tones.

He rose and dragged himself out of the cook shack to relieve his bladder. There was a pair of latrines down behind the barns but they had gotten nasty from the volume of refugees using it and he didn't feel like walking that far. He took two steps the cook shack, glanced around, and let loose against a prickly bush that didn't looked more like a weed than an herb.

His borrowed clothes were beginning to smell a bit ripe. He wondered what happened to his own clothes. Once it warmed up a bit he decided to brave a quick rinse in the spring out back.

He raked his thick hair back, parting his fingers like a comb. He turned around to find Misty sitting on one of the benches in the cook shack. He hastily tucked in a flap and fumbled with the laces on his fly.

"How long you been there?" he said.

"Just came out," said Misty. Her hair was brushed and neat. A satchel was slung over her shoulder, a basket tucked under her arm.

"Jeez, announce yourself next time. Ever hear of 'good morning?'"

"You were busy peeing on Liz's medicinals. Didn't want to startle you."

"What are you doing up so early?"

"I been thinkin' about what you said," said Misty, her face expressionless, almost grim. "About your car and all, and calling home."

"What about it?"

"I wanna do it."

"Okay," said Miles, feeling a little tingly. "When do you want to go?"

"Now," said Misty.

"You mean... right this minute?" His voice went up in pitch, the way it did when he was surprised or flustered.

"Yeah."

Miles hadn't expected Misty to take him up on his offer, or at least not so soon. And despite the calm, he had warmed up to the wisdom of staying put, for now anyway.

"Uh, maybe we should check first down at the cliffs?" said Miles. "Make sure things are quiet in the valley?"

"If we're gonna go at all, we gotta go now," said Misty. "Get away before Liz gets up. She really laid into Ellie last night for taking off up into the hills."

"What makes you think this won't rile her up?"

"Don't matter," said Misty. "This is something I gotta do. If it's at all possible, like you say it is, I need to call my sis."

Miles struggled to disentangle his disparate inclinations. He wanted to call home himself and save face with Misty by keeping his end of the bargain. But the thought of leaving the security of the vale terrified him.

He searched for the bravado he had been able to muster in the bunker, when he imagined himself the sole protector of Lizbet's farm. AK or not, leaving the vale seemed simpler when it was only an idea.

He took a deep breath. "Be nice if I could wash up first," he said, stalling.

"There're streams along the way," said Misty, rising.

"O-kay."

"Let's go," said Misty, pulling up her veil. She turned towards the lane.

***

The sun was just coming up. Frank had been out of the barn and roaming the vale since dark. Tezhay hadn't returned to the barn the night before. Frank, exhausted had fallen asleep just fine, but once he woke up, that was all she wrote. Being in a dark loft, alone with a corpse, disconcerted him. His thoughts went spinning into dark corners.

A small boy had followed him down the lane and across the lower terrace to the waterfall. The boy was trying to teach him Giep'o, pointing to things and naming them, but Frank was too distracted to participate. The boy proved a much better student, mimicking anything that Frank said over and over like a mad parrot.

"Like a parrot, like a parrot, like a parrot."

"Jeez kid, will you stop that?"

"Jeeskidstopdat, Jeeskidstopdat!"

A pair of figures came bustling down the dim lane. At first they drew barely a glance, but then he noticed the dangling AK. It was Miles and that girl, Misty, probably going down to help guard the approach to the cliffs.

Frank stepped out onto an overhanging slab that offered a view of the zig-zagging ramp that came up the cliff face. Miles and Misty passed down the ramp without even pausing at the little bunker at the halfway point. They passed through the scree, across the clearing and into the trees.

"What the fuck are they up to?" He turned to the boy. "Don't you dare repeat that!"

But the boy was gone. He was tearing through the fields towards the barns.

***

Tezhay squinted, disoriented at the people sprawled on the floor around him. He floated, dazed in an amnesiac limbo, taking a full minute to realize that he was not in the loft but on Lizbet's porch. And then he remembered sharing that herb with one of his volunteers and how it possessed a lot more punch that he was expecting. Here he was, hours later, still feeling its effects. He would have to remember to get some seeds to take back home.

A boy came running onto the porch, breathless.

"They are going off to fight," he said in Giep'o.

"Who is going?" said Tezhay. "To fight who?"

"The man with the stick. He is going to fight the Crasacs again, and Sister Misty is going with him."

Liz clambered out of the main house.

"Did you say Misty?"

The boy nodded vigorously.

"These damned women of mine. Does someone have to go sneaking out every morning? What do I have to do? Keep them chained up?"

"You don't think they go off to fight, do you?" said Tezhay.

"I don't have the slightest clue what they're up to," said Liz. "Ellie, you know anything about this?"

Ellie slipped meekly out onto the porch. "Miles has a... phone," she said. "It takes pictures. And it gets... bars. Misty wanted to use it... to talk to her sister."

"Impossible," said Tezhay.

"You know what the hell she's talking about?" said Liz.

"He has a mobile telephone," said Tezhay. "It is like a Mercomar in your pocket, except you talk. But it should not work here. That is not possible."

"Well, apparently Misty thinks it does," said Liz. "I can't believe she would run off at a time like this."

Tezhay pulled himself up off the floor with the help of a support post. "We will go and get them back." He took a wobbly step, paused to regain his balance and rousted several of his more able-bodied volunteers from the floor of the porch.
Chapter 29: Flushed

The brick and thatch of Raacevo's sprawl filled the low places beneath the hilltop temples and bulwarks of the Alar. Bimji huddled with Teo and Idala at the edge of an expansive and isolated coppice of re-sprouted hardwoods, the remains of a sacred, primeval grove that had been felled in the first wave of colonization. They watched a contingent of mounted Cuerti trot slowly up the Verden road, studying its bed and verges, trampled by Idala's warriors in the night.

Though he ached from a day and a night of forced march, being back at the threshold of his home valley, revivified him. The river he had bathed and fished in since he was a child meandered but a stone's throw away. The farm was only a few hours away.

Bimji's thrill was tempered by the troop formations gathering at the northern roadblock. Companies of Crasacs milled about the fallow fields flanking the road. Cuasar detachments galloped every which way, scouting the hill country leading to the western valleys. If Idala and Teo had chosen to march one day later, they would never have made it beyond Raacevo.

Idala's warriors, augmented by members of a clan from another western village, numbered sixty in all on foot with another score or so on ponies, which their riders had taken deep into the woodlot to graze among the lush swales and swards interspersed among the young trees.

Bimji cringed every time he heard a pony snort. He hoped the wind coming out of the west sufficed to mute them and to carry away their scent.

The foot warriors, by order as well as intuition, lay low and inert as blocks of wood, giving the Cuerti no rustle of bush or quiver or tree to confirm whatever suspicions they might harbor.

"They see our tracks," said Idala. "We should have covered them, or at least taken better care and crossed over ledges."

"I didn't think it necessary," said Teo. "I was certain it would rain."

Several of the Cuerti dismounted and crouched down by the road side. One of them examined an object that had been trampled into the mud.

"I've never seen so many Cuerti," said Bimji. "Not out and about in the countryside like this. I thought they rarely stray from their temples."

"They're more than temple guards," said Teo. "In times of war, they fight like any soldier. We saw whole battalions of them in Sesei during the invasion. I would guess that these men are out here preparing an attack."

"But who are they attacking?" said Idala.

"Whoever silenced the Mercomar, I would guess," said Teo. "More evidence that the militia counteroffensive might be underway."

"In which case, what they prepare is not an attack as much as a defense," said Idala, eyes glinting.

One of the Cuerti raised a pair flags, signaling to the units down by the crossroads.

"What does that mean?" said Bimji.

"Can't tell... from this angle," said Teo.

A clanking and creaking commenced, increasing steadily in volume, silencing all birdsong.

"What in bloody hell is that?" said Teo.

Idala rose and moved stealthily to a better vantage point closer to the edge of the coppice. "It's a... cart. A giant cart, leading other carts."

"A war wagon," said Teo. "Armored oxen pulling a wheeled tower for marksmen. A moveable strong point and I bet it's leading a supply train. This is how they did it in Sesei. But I never thought I'd see a war wagon in Gi."

"I see more machines behind them," said Idala. "Devices with ladders. Contraptions that throw."

Teo flushed. Her breathing accelerated. "We need to get word back to my cadre. We'll need every fighter from every clan in the west."

"How?" said Idala. "Cuasars prowl every back way to Gor'ta. They've probably activated every Polu in and around Raacevo."

Bimji stood and craned his neck down towards the roadblock. "They're bringing up a company... two companies of Crasacs. Coming our way up the road."

"I don't like this," said Teo. "I bet the Cuerti summoned them. I suspect they're preparing to flush us."

"We're trapped," said Idala. "If we stay put, they'll crush us."

"The way to Sinta is open," said Bimji. "Across the beet fields. It's too muddy for the Cuasars but your ponies can manage."

Teo looked at Idala. Both looked grim.

"What other choice do we have?" said Idala.

Chapter 30: Excursion

Misty pranced down the ramp ahead of Miles, lips pursed, face taut. She wore moccasin-like boots that reached halfway up her calves. A long bow was slung on her back with a quiver of arrows, their red and purple fletching evoking a bouquet of wildflowers. An oil skin was bunched under her arm and she clutched a small basket to her belly.

"What's in the basket?" said Miles.

"Packed us a little picnic for lunch," she said, patting the wicker lid. "T'ain't much."

"What, no breakfast?" said Miles.

"How about we call it brunch?" said Misty. "Let's get our butts down the trail a bit first." She fished into her pocket and pulled out the heel of a small loaf. "But here's a tidbit to tide you over." She pressed it into Mile's hand.

"Thanks," said Miles. "You want some?"

She flicked her head. "No thanks, I'm fine." She looked dazed.

"You okay?" said Miles.

"Just... nervous," she said. "You think we can make it back here by noon?"

"Um... maybe," said Miles. "If we drive."

"Drive?" she said, shaking her head. "Sorry, that just sounds... preposterous."

"Not only that," said Miles. He took a deep breath. "We don't have to come back here ... right away. You help me get my car out of the bog. I've got a full tank. We can drive our way out of this place. Find a city with an American consulate or what-not."

"Drive from Gi?" said Misty. "Are you serious?"

"Why not? I can call out of here, can't I?"

"This ain't Mexico, Miles." Misty's eyes didn't quite roll, but they did wiggle. "Let's go make those calls," she said. "We'll discuss the other stuff later, alright?" Misty tossed a glance up to the cliff top. "Liz is gonna have a hissy fit. But oh well. I'm a big girl. I can do things for myself." She bit her lip. "Okay, let's do it."

Miles kept his eyes on the trees. Being at the scene of the violence again tweaked his nerves. Tom's blood still stained some of the gaps between stones, but at least the Crasacs had been removed from the ditch.

The forest was quiet. The only sounds came from birds and insects and the little skinny-tailed squirrels that scuttled down the branches. The paths looked clear. Miles shrugged. He saw no reason not to go forth.

"'Kay," he said and they started down the switchback, down a plane of fractured bedrock to the packed scree below.

Miles hesitated at the base of the cliffs, Miles hesitated. At least four well-worn paths converged on the clearing like spokes. He recognized some split logs spanning a muddy dip and started down it. The path quickly narrowed. Brambles and saplings encroached.

"Where are you taking us?" said Misty.

"This is the way," said Miles. "I'm sure of it."

"You're positive?"

Miles ignored her, plunging ahead. They quickly came upon even swampier terrain with split logs end to end. Miles suddenly wasn't so sure. He didn't remember this feature.

"This is the way to the river, right?" he said.

Misty smirked. "You'd better turn around, hon. Ain't nothing down this way but swamp rats."

"I could have sworn...." said Miles.

"Is it Sinta that you want? The main road?"

"Well, yeah there's a road... and a river," said Miles.

"Sinta," said Misty. "Better let me lead," she said, slipping in front of Miles. She led them back to the clearing and around to the next path over, which also had a pair of split logs crossing a muddy seep.

Miles walked into the tripwire that Tom had set, rattling a kitchen's worth of broken crockery. He would have blown them all to dust had the AK's fire select lever not been pulled up on safe.

"Jeezus! Calm down," said Misty.

"Everything's cool, I'm fine," said Miles. "Just forgot this booby trap was here."

"Then stop swinging that damned gun around," said Misty. "Keep it pointed at the ground."
Chapter 31: Search Party

Frank strolled back to the barn, hoping the dead man's family had made off with his body the way the other two had vanished before sunrise the morning before. One day without rain had dried out the lane. He picked his way along the high points, islets of packed clay and pale dust among the puddles and pits of dark, red mud. The mad torrents that had gushed through the ditches towards the cliffs flowed calmly now, trickling to their destiny at the cliffs.

Frank had almost made it back to the barn when Tezhay came pounding down from the main house with some of his volunteers with their AKs, both real and replica. They all looked half asleep.

"Come," said Tezhay. "We go find Mist."

"Misty? I just saw her leave with Miles."

"You no stop them?"

"Why... did they need stopping? Where'd they go?"

"Ellie say, to make telephone," said Tezhay.

"What do you mean?"

"Misty want to call her sister."

"How?"

"I don't know. Come. We have to find them. The road is danger. You come help us, you look brave for your woman. Maybe she like you more."

"Look brave?" said Frank. "You mean... show off for Liz?"

"Yes," said Tezhay. "You help find your, eh... step-wife. Maybe Lizbet, she like this and not be so mean to you."

"Wait a minute. Misty's not my step-wife," said Frank. "And Liz isn't... mean. She's just confused."

"Both of you marry to Lizbet, no?"

Frank felt his heart ramping up. "Tezhay, I appreciate your concern, but... enough already."

"So you come with us?"

"I was about to look in on Tom," said Frank.

"Ellie say he is good," said Tezhay. "He sleeps."

Frank's attention sprang up the lane. Liz had hobbled out from the house to watch the search party leave. In the morning light, her face looked softer, less creased—he caught a flash of how she looked when she was younger and happily married to him in Belize.

"You all be careful down there," said Liz.

Frank latched onto those simple words of concern like a starving beggar to a morsel. Despite his inclinations, he turned and joined the search party, stepping light with the knowledge that Liz was watching.

They passed through the terraces and paused at the cliff, where Tezhay queried the old man standing watch at the top of the ramp.

One of the volunteers gawked at Frank as if he were a circus freak, although the man himself seemed clownish. He wore a head scarf down to his eyebrows, and could not stop fidgeting. He shook the hopper of the paintball gun like a maraca and danced a bit too close to Frank's personal space.

"Fuck off," Frank muttered and turned away. Tezhay was wise in not giving this one a real weapon. He glanced up the lane to see that Liz had gone back to the house. He sighed.

A broad-cheeked woman holding one of the real AKs propped on the ground, idly snaked her index finger deep down the barrel. The hair rose on the back of Frank's neck. His heart spasmed. He reached over and snatched her hand away.

"Don't you ever do that!" said Frank, shuddering. "Jeez, Tezhay, I thought you taught these folks to handle these things."

Tezhay looked puzzled. He hadn't seen what the woman had done. "I did train. Is easy. A monkey can shoot this AK."

"Did you not consider teaching some gun safety while you were at it?"

"No worries," said Tezhay. "They know how to make safe with switch."

Frank sighed, deeply.

"We go now," said Tezhay. "The old man say the two not go far. Is not so long ago they go."

They headed down the face of the cliff. Frank's muscles ached from all the climbing they had done the day before, but he felt surprisingly strong and limber. All of this exercise was doing him good. His thighs felt taut. Some of his paunch had burned away.

"Any idea where they went?" said Frank.

"Not sure," said Tezhay. "But the Urep'o boy, I hear him talk about how he come to Gi. I think maybe they go to find a xenolith."

"You mean... there's another?" said Frank.

"There is many here," said Tezhay.

"And you know where they are?"

"Some" said Tezhay. "Not all."

"But what was all this about a telephone?"

"He has one," said Tezhay. "It works. How? I cannot tell you."

"Huh," said Frank, rubbing his beard. "So you volunteered for this search party because you want to stop them from reaching the xenolith. Right? Like you told me—once an exile, always an exile."

"Is not true," said Tezhay. "I want them be safe, is all. This boy is like child here. No understand how much there is danger out there."

"So would you let them go back, if they could? Would you?"

Tezhay's eyes wandered. "I don't know," he said. "Things change. If to stay here is to die. Then maybe... maybe so."

The volunteers milled about in the clearing at the cliff base, studying every dent and scuff in the clay and dislodged chunk of scree. They clicked their tongues and murmured gravely at a fresh set of hoof prints.

"One Cuasar," said Tezhay. "Riding fast."

The man with the paintball rifle darted off down a narrow path, then immediately doubled back, exclaiming excitedly.

"Ahah!" said Tezhay. "He say they try and leave false trail, but they no can fool us." Tezhay stepped towards a larger path angling to the right. "They go this way. To Sinta."
Chapter 32: Ambush

Canu kept to himself, ignoring Feril's repeated calls to confer with his officers. He crossed the river to the plundered village, fending off the temptation to start down the trail to the marsh camps. Instead he turned back and climbed partway to the mountain pass where he and Ara had mourned Ren's loss together in the rain. Sunset made him return to the hillside, where some of Feril's fighters managed to concoct a stew from barley salvaged from a wrecked granary, augmented with wild greens in cook pots retrieved from abandoned homes.

No one intruded on his self-imposed isolation. Pari and Vul were accustomed to his moodiness and brooding. Perhaps they had shared his eccentricities with Feril who had only nodded curtly to Canu as they waited in a queue to receive their dinners. Whatever the reasons, no one pried. They gave him his space.

Canu spent the night alone in the car and at sunrise, traversed the length of the wall. The sky again held more grey than blue, but splashes of sunlight were seeping through the ceiling earlier than they had the day before. He found his favorite tree at the edge of the gulch, at the far end of the wall and climbed it. He dangled his legs over a bough, meditating, surveying the valley. The road in both directions remained uncannily devoid of activity.

Canu wondered why he heeded Ara's warnings this time around, why he feared countering her wishes, when all his life he had made a practice of questioning authority, ignoring rules and constraints of all sorts.

But he had never valued a person's good graces as much as he did Ara's. Though, he doubted he had the will to refrain from going after her much longer.

He squinted as the clouds parted long enough to allow the sun to wash over the hillside. As he basked, relishing its feel on his clammy skin, a series of flashes emanated from a spot near the center of the line, back a little ways from the wall.

Canu's heart lurched, In haste, he lowered himself from the bough, creating a shower of loose bark, and ran along the wall to the copse of cedars where the flash had originated. He swept past Vul without a word and turned the corner down a freshly blazed path, barreling into the old Mercomar master, who stood tethered under a tree, arms folded, gazing through a breach in the wall. Canu threw him to the ground and rifled through his clothing.

The two guards, who had been sitting and gossiping on a fallen log, scrambled over, but hovered back, reluctant to intervene.

"Get away!" said the old man. "What are you doing?"

Vul came running up. "Canu! What the hell...? Get off of him."

A seam ripped open in the old man's jacket and a small, round signal mirror, punctured in the center, slipped out and clinked against the pebbles. Vul's chin fell slack.

Canu snagged it and stuffed it into his pocket. He seized the old man by the shoulders. "What message did you send? What did you tell them?"

"Tell who? I doubt anyone was watching," said the old man, sheepishly. "I just... saw the sun come and... I was playing around. I'm a mirror man. It's what I do."

Canu glared at the guards. "Pay closer attention to this one, unless you want the Alar to know you by name."

"Go through his possessions," said Vul to the guards. "Make sure he doesn't have another mirror on him."

"Make him go naked if you need to," said Canu. He turned to Vul. "Did you not even notice?" said Canu.

"Did he flash, really?" said Vul.

"You think I'm making this up?" said Canu.

Vul shook his head. "I thought we had searched him well. I thought him harmless. That's why we didn't restrain him completely – only the tether. And he's been well-behaved, complicit almost, sharing much I didn't know about the Alar and the Venep'o in Gi."

To Canu, from the start Rabelmani had seemed too calm for a captive, almost giddy about his situation. Vul seemed to interpret this behavior as a sign of dementia but Canu saw more fire than smoke behind the old man's eyes.

"Where's Feril?" said Canu.

"Making the rounds with Igwa, last I knew," said Vul.

A whistle sounded from wall, cascading down the line as each sentry on duty repeated it. Canu hustled back to the wall, Vul on his tail. A woman holding a captured Crasac pike peered around the breach.

"What's happening?" said Canu.

"A rider just passed," she said. "A courier, perhaps?"

Canu climbed onto the stones and peeked over the top. A mounted figure streaked out of the trees along the road across the river.

"Another," said Vul. "Or is he the one you saw?"

"Same one," said the sentry. "Returning in the other direction."

"He's a Cuasar," said Canu. "A scout, making sure the road is clear," said Canu. The Cuasar rode a sleek, muscular mount that put Igwa's shaggy ponies to shame.

"Clear for whom?" said Vul.

"Good question," said Canu, he glanced back towards the cedars and saw that the guards had taken Canu's advice literally. Rabelmani's clothing lay wadded in a heap on the ground before him. He wore only a loin cloth exposing a series of hideous scars stretching across his bare torso. He looked as if he had been mauled by a pack of wolves with teeth of sharpened steel.

"Maybe he's not as skilled at defending himself with a blade as we thought," said Canu.

"If that's how you think," said Rabelmani. "You should visit the graves of those who wounded me. You won't find many of my former foes with heads intact."

Canu ran his fingers around his own neck and elevated his chin. "Funny. Mine certainly seems to be attached just fine."

"For now, young pup. For now," said Rabelmani. "Once the garrisons empty. The Alar will hunt you down and stomp you like ants. Every last one of you."

"We'll see about that," said Canu. "We've got thousand-strong garrisons of our own, you know, and they're about to be unleashed."

"Um, Canu?" said Vul. "No need to share this."

Canu bit his lip.

"He means the marsh camps, I suppose?" said Rabelmani. "Nothing new to us. They've been kept in their place and in their place they'll stay. Our diplomats have taken care of that."

"Us? You consider yourself Venep'o?" said Canu.

"Why not? They healed me. Gave me shelter when I was cast out of Sesei. Introduced me to the Mercy of the Great Cra."

"The Great Cra can go and lick my spittle," said Canu.

Rabelmani's chest expanded, but he remained calm. His gaze narrowed, and a slow, cruel smile creased his lips. "You renegades will be dealt with in due course," he said. "If not by us then by your own kind."

"Renegades?"

Rabelmani shrugged. "It's obvious you don't follow the will of those who lead you."

"We follow the will of Sesei!" said Canu, clenching his fists, widening his stand.

"Canu, leave him be," said Vul, touching Canu's shoulder. "He's just trying to goad you."

"Well, it's working," said Canu. He forced himself to walk away, but turned abruptly to face the old man. "Don't be so sure of yourself, mirror man. You may find yourself surprised."

Rabelmani laughed. "Surprised? Like with your antics on the hill that accomplished nothing? Don't worry. What's to come is set in stone. You will all be exterminated. It is the Alar's way."

More whistles propagated down the line of sentries, this time sounding a more urgent alarm.

"And here they come," said the old man. "Heheh! Your ends may arrive sooner than you were thinking."

***

Feril sent word out for all officers to meet at an outcrop that provided a strategic view of the valley below. This time, Canu deigned to attend, but on the way, he passed to help Pari and the healers strap several of the more seriously wounded to litters, so they could be removed out of harm's way.

When they arrived at the outcrop, Feril was huddled on top with Igwa, Vul and several of his sergeants. A hedge abutting the wall blocked the view from ground level.

"What's going on down there?" said Canu.

"Nalkies," said Vul. "Igwa says they're westerners. Mostly on foot. They're fleeing across the beet fields, under pursuit by Crasacs."

"We're setting an ambush," said Feril.

Canu climbed up the jutting ledge to see for himself. The Nalkies retreated skillfully, making full advantage of stream beds and rises, delaying a block of advancing Crasacs with staggered lines of skirmishers. They were about to be forced into a narrows formed by a pair of rocky spurs that came together like the pincers of a scorpion.

Across the river, ahead if the Nalki retreat, Cuasars gathered on the road. They seemed to be waiting for something, perhaps a command.

"The Nalkies don't see them. They don't know they're there," said Pari.

"If those Cuasars head to the fords, they'll cut off the retreat," said Canu. "The Nalkies will be torn apart. We need to intervene."

"Not quite yet," said Feril. "We don't have the Crasacs' flank."

"You'd rather watch some Nalkies die first?" said Canu, flabbergasted.

"Our fighters are at the ready," said Feril. "If we want this ambush to work, we can't show ourselves too early."

"So how many of them do you plan to sacrifice to make your ambush work better?"

"Sacrifice? I don't... We're not...." Feril stared blankly. Igwa leaned over and whispered something to him.

Canu couldn't take it. He hopped down from the ledge and stomped off down the wall, passing behind ranks of anxious fighters.

Pari slid down a slant of stone on her bottom and took off running, catching up to Canu. "I've seen that look on you before and I don't like it," she said. "You're up to something again, aren't you?"

"Never you mind," said Canu, quickening his pace.

"You had better not be planning something rash."

"Nothing rash," said Canu. "Just a distraction."
Chapter 33: Confined to Quarters

Ara lay on a musty bed in her old quarters: a domed hut with walls woven of reeds and rushes, like a giant, overturned basket. It sat within a compound of similar lodgings assigned to junior cadre, arranged in a semi-circle around a common hearth.

She had slept erratically, waking often with night sweats and palpitations. She sagged from the weight of all that had gone wrong.

A guard paced outside, humming low under his breath, though his voice could not compete with the riot of frog calls that had commenced since dusk. Trills and shrieks merged with staccato, syncopated burps and near subsonic thuds to form a wall of noise that would challenge a dead man's repose, never mind the sleep of a woman bedeviled with frets.

Coming back to the marshes had been a terrible mistake. The militias remained just as mired in the mud as when she left for Ur. Clearly, Ingar wouldn't be sending as much as a squad of scouts to investigate the silencing of the Mercomar. Ara's friends would be left to fend for themselves.

And here she lay, a prisoner in her own hut, helpless to help them. What would become of them? What would Canu think of her when she failed to return?

They should have never gone after the Mercomar. They could have lain low, joined up with some Nalkies, gone west to seek out the Lost Cadre, verify the rumors of their demise.

What could have aroused Ingar's suspicions so quickly? She had told the truth about what went on in Ur, with the occasional embellishment and selective omission, but it was the truth just the same.

Ingar had always been the careful sort, always double-checking, hedging his bets. Perhaps he was just being cautious.

Or maybe he didn't want Ara talking to the militias, worried that her return might fan the flames of discord. If she stayed calm and complied with Ingar's edict, his concerns might ease and she would be released from custody.

After all, what more could he possibly learn about what went on in Ur? She had witnessed Canu crush the xenolith that opened Greymore to Ubabaor. And Baren was dead. The only survivors of the clash had crossed with Ara to Gi.

The sun had yet to rise. Ara rose and lit the lamp of rendered deer fat that made her hut smell like a hunting cabin. No one had occupied her quarters while she was away and she had returned to find it just as she had left it, as tidy as a shrine, though the walls had mildewed from the rainwater soaking the rush panels. A touch of mold left her bed linens feeling a bit slimy. Tomorrow, if Ingar would allow it, she could ask someone from the duty crew to wash them in the moat.

A man entered the compound, drawn like a moth to light to Ara's door. He poked his head inside. "Any post for me, comrade?"

"Post?" said Ara, rising.

"A convergence comes this morning. Major one, says the tabulator. Word is, we've got barley flour and jerked meat coming our way. There's going to be a feast, skillet cakes and such." He grinned and rolled his eyes heavenwards. He lingered in her doorway, blinking. "So?" he said. "Any post for me to take?"

The guard came over and whispered something to the postman.

"Ah, I see," he said. "Best be off, then." He shared a sheepish grin, with sympathy in his eyes and sidled away. He completed his rounds, retrieving the message-bearing reeds that occupants of the other huts had stuck into their door frames, and added them to his bundle.

The guard stayed by Ara's door. "What's the matter? Can't sleep?"

"Could you?" said Ara. "If you were confined for no reason?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," said the guard. "Every week another captain gets tossed in the brig. At least you get to lie in your own bed."

Ara made herself smile and nod, settling heavily onto her stool when the guard walked away. Perspiration beaded everywhere, despite the cool night air that had descended on the marshes. She writhed, swatting at the tiny crepuscular gnats that came to bite.

The brig! She hadn't counted on being sent to the brig. A dank and fetid pit in the dry season, she could not imagine its condition after the rains.

It would only take a rumor to raise Ingar's suspicions, maybe only a whim. A deserter from Feril's company could wander back with word of Ara's deeds on the mountain. Travelers would be sent to Greymore to investigate what happened in Ur and word would filter back to Ingar. She would be slammed into that horrible pit and exposed to the derision and abuse it invited from bored militia. She would be one step closer to summary execution if Ingar found it prudent or expeditious.

As the sky began to lighten, panic set its teeth into her and clamped down. She got up and went to her chest of spare clothes, and changed into a shift much cleaner than what she wore, though it bore the musk of the marsh water in which it had been washed. She grabbed a frayed tunic and a pair of drawstring breeches and stuffed them into her satchel. She added a bowl and a spoon, some of the frayed twigs she used to clean her teeth and the little blade she used to trim her nails.

Leaving her lamp burning, she went to the back corner of the hut and ripped the seam between the two reed panels that formed her back wall. She squeezed out into an alley curving outside the compound, and dashed away from the mesh-filtered candle glow, into an uncertain twilight.

Chapter 34: Ara on the Loose

Ara slinked past overflowing latrines, middens of shell and bone heaped against sagging fences. She kept to the back alleys of militia compounds, staying away from main passageways as much as possible. She avoided in particular the compound gates and their watch standers, who might be aware of Commander Ingar's edict against her. She found that the camp still slept. The alleys were vacant, her stealth unnecessary.

Each compound housed intact militia groups, organized by region and village cluster as they had been Sesei. Some militia fighters trained and fought with the same men and women with whom they attended nursery school.

Ara caught up with the postman, laboring under bundles of hundreds of messages, lashed together in thick sheaves and heaped on his shoulders.

"Let me help you with those," said Ara. She took a bundle off his hands, which proved more bulky than heavy.

"Why, thank you, comrade," said the postman. "I was afraid I might dump the whole load in the mud."

"Do you always carry so much mail?" said Ara, surprised by its volume.

"When there's news," said the postman. "We had a bit of excitement this morning with the Mercomar going dark. Something to tell the folks back home, raise a little hope."

The postman seemed oblivious to Ara's situation. Either the man did not recognize her, or Ingar had not passed on word of his edict camp-wide. Perhaps this would be her only opportunity to leave. Ingar's constraints would only tighten and this window would close, especially once he discovered she had defied his orders.

They passed through a training area where slashed bundles of willow switches stuffed with marsh straw served as surrogate enemies for militias practicing sword play. She remembered the words of an old sergeant: "If only our enemy were made of straw, Venen would be ours."

Ara hesitated at a familiar fence of stout reeds threaded with vine. They had reached the part of camp she knew best—her former compound, the one she knew when she first came to Gi as a militia recruit.

"I need to pass word to a friend," said Ara. "I'll just be a moment."

"Let me take that bundle off your hands," said the postman.

"No need," said Ara. "I won't be long."

The postman looked uncomfortable. "The convergence peaks within the hour. We expect a strong junction but I expect things to be busy."

"No worries, I'll be there, I promise," said Ara, dashing in through the gate. She strode across the freshly swept clay of the common and paused outside the hut of Garoen, her former commander. She heard sleepy, subdued voices, the scrape of spoon on bowl. She dropped her bundle and popped inside without a warning.

Garaoen and Sing, the unit's top sergeant, nearly dumped their porridge at her sudden appearance.

"Ara!"

"Quiet!" said Ara, pulling the flap of the entrance closed.

"I thought you were quarantined," said Garaoen.

"Are you going to report me?"

"Of course not," said Garaoen. "But... why the quarantine? They wouldn't tell us."

"It's complicated," said Ara. "And I can't linger. I stopped to goodbye... and to ask a favor of those I can trust."

"You can depend on us, Ara," said Sing. "Like you said those Urep'o fighters say – always faithful. That's us as well."

Ara's gaze hung in the ether for long seconds before she could speak.

"I attacked the Mercomar," she said.

"You what?"

"That missing militia unit?" she said. "That was me. I commandeered it under false pretenses. We battled Crasacs on the mountain. Destroyed the heliograph."

Garaoen and Sing looked at each other, perplexed, and then burst out laughing.

"Never thought it would take a language teacher to break the stalemate," said Garoen. "How did it go?"

"Enough of us survived to fight another day," said Ara. "But it was no rout. Those who fought with me are still in the valley. If it's at all in your power to send a force to help them. I beg you, please do all you can."

"Well I'm certainly willing, as would be our fighters," said Garaoen. "But Ingar's got us locked down tight."

"We could get permission to go on maneuver," said Sing. "Tell Ingar, it's for training."

"Please try," said Ara. "And see if any other militias can join you. The Ortezei company is out there, all exposed. They have some Nalkies with them, but they couldn't withstand a concerted attack. I wish I could stick around to help, but I seem to have a black mark with Ingar."

"I can't promise you anything," said Garoen. "But we'll try."

***

Scarf wrapped around her head, ostensibly against the morning chill, Ara waited below the mound of dredged mud and marsh straw that hosted the camp's xenolith. She huddled with the motley band of couriers, fever victims, miscreants and those assigned to escort them to Sesei with the morning's convergence.

Ara's name was not on the crossing manifest, but it seemed that the officer managing the crossing had already gone through the list when she arrived. Luckily, the postman was not the most suspicious or attentive soul. He seemed pleased enough that she had shown up in time with the extra bundles of mail.

Commander Ingar and a pair of his cadre captains appeared at the opening in the picket fence surrounding the convergence mound. Ara hunkered low with her bundle of post and pushed her way deeper into the throng.

The xenolith began to hum and spew mists that wove their strands into helices. A party made their up to the mounded earth that served as the convergence zone.

"Minutes away," said one among the contingent of armed guards overseeing the event.

The officer managing the convergence strutted over. "You can all queue up now," he said. "But wait your turn. Incoming goods first. Keep the portal clear until I give the word."

The waiting gaggle stretched out single file and Ara lost her cover. Only the postman and her bundles screened her from Ingar and his captains.

"There's to be a massive festival, I hear, the feast of feasts, on the day of reconciliation," said one of the captains to another, as he strolled with Ingar to the benches outside the convergence zone, where observers gathered.

"I'll believe it when my feet kick the dust of Ubabaor," said the other captain.

"Reconciliation is a fact," said Ingar. "It will be done. Believe it."

Reconciliation. Baren had often used that word. Ara could never grasp what it meant. She gathered it was to be an extended truce with concessions – a province here, a xenolith there in return for restraint. To her it seemed that reconciliation was just a euphemism for surrender.

The field around the xenolith expanded and the air around it seemed to thicken in spots and refract the light like an oily prism. Oranges and purples and blues predominated. Columns formed in the air. Tree trunks. Mists swirled. Evergreen breezes mingled with the dank rot of the marsh.

Those in the queue waited nervously. Just before peak convergence was the safest time to cross, and that time was approaching. Minutes passed. More trees appeared and attained solidity. Finally, a courier appeared, a plump fellow, apparently plucked directly from the offices of Cadre Command. He acted like he had never traveled by portal before, stumbling around like a drunk. He passed a packet of documents on to Ingar.

Ingar thumbed through it.

"What's it say?" said one of the captains.

"Not much," said Ingar. "Negotiations have resumed. No resolution yet."

Those watching waited expectantly for more arrivals.

"It's just me," said the messenger. "I came alone."

A groan went up among the militia gathered to watch as they realized that they would be receiving no post, no supplies this convergence.

The officer managing the portal turned to the queue. "Alright you all. Hustle through. Only a few minutes to go." The queue shuffled forward slowly.

"I need to return," said the messenger. "Can't I go first?"

"Get in back of the queue," snarled a sergeant.

Those in the queue, laden with cargo, darted into the field one by one, counting off to five before following. Ara found herself two behind the man in front, when Ingar met her nervous gaze.

"Ara?" he said, mouth agape.

She dropped the mailbag and dashed into the portal, running into the back of the man just entering the field. They tumbled together. Rippling forces bent their bones and twisted their flesh. Ara dumped out into the St. Johnsbury town forest amongst a gaggle of couriers gathering their goods. Ara ran through the trees, heading for the glow of the town, away from the relay point in the forest beyond that would take the others to Sesei.

Like it or not, she was back in Vermont.
Chapter 35: Distraction

Canu dashed along the wall, Pari nipping at his heels like a pestering dog.

"Stop right there Canu. We need to talk. I said stop, we need to talk. What did you mean by distraction? What kind of distraction?"

Canu ignored her, concentrating on the western Nalkies below, who had formed up yet another defense against the advancing Crasacs along a berm separating two beet fields. Distance muddied the sounds of fighting, rendering it indistinguishable from calls at pleasure contests one might attend at festival.

The wall petered out and the pasture gave way to a well-managed woodlot with widely-spaced trees. Two wounded but ambulatory fighters guarded the road that led up to the moors and down to the causeway. Canu hailed them with a whistle as he descended towards the wrinkle in the hillside where he had hidden the red car.

The guards whistled back, requesting an identifier.

"You know who we are," he shouted, with annoyance.

"Tell me what you're doing," said Pari.

"My part," said Canu.

"Which is what? Botch everyone else's efforts so that you can look like a hero?"

Canu peeled back the wilted bushes and slabs of bark that disguised the car. One of the wheels looked a little soft, but full enough to roll. A ragged sheet of torn metal hung down from the front, tangled with uprooted weeds. Canu yanked it off. It was far from the first dangly bit that he had pulled from the machine and the overall result had been a vehicle with much better ground clearance than the one he had started with.

"Canu, you need to tell me right now what you plan to do. I've got my crossbow cocked. A healer knows how to take someone down without killing them. You let me know now or we'll talk about it while you're mending."

She pressed the crossbow against his buttocks.

Canu hopped back. "Damn it, Pari, I'm just going across the causeway and back, that's all. Just to distract them, make them pause, make them chase."

"But why?" said Pari.

"So Feril and Igwa can take them by surprise."

"Have you even told Feril and Igwa this?"

"They have eyes. If I told them, they would stop me."

"For good reason. It sounds risky."

Canu curled his lips in a sneer. "They can't catch me in this thing. Have you seen how fast it goes?"

Canu turned to the road guards who both carried long bows. "Who among you is the best shot?"

"That would be me," said the guard with the bandaged face and half his beard cut away.

"Maybe when you still had two eyes," said the other guard.

"Who wants to come along and snipe at some Cuasars?" said Canu.

Neither guard looked eager to join him.

"I'll go," said Pari. "But only if you promise to turn around before contact."

"Of course," said Canu. The door creaked open. He dropped into the driver's seat. "Do I look crazy?"

Not a muscle twitched in Pari's face as she opened the door and got in beside him. She took off her quiver and placed it on the floor between her legs. Two bolts were already loaded and cocked in her double-slotted crossbow.

Canu started the car and tried to pull out of the hollow. The front wheels spun in place, throwing bits of leaf and mud against the trees.

Canu opened his window.

"Don't stand there, gawking! Help us out of this hole!"

The guards put down their weapons threw their weight against the back of the car. By increments, they eased them out of the hollow and the car sprang forward as soon as it found traction. They hurtled down the shaded slope towards the causeway.

***

Canu rolled past a row of ruined barns and granaries on the edge of Xama. "Do you see them?" he whispered.

"All I see is mud," said Pari. She climbed out the door window and wiped the mud off the windshield with a fistful of crumpled leaves. "Stop moving, so I can wipe your side."

She stood on the door, leaned over the roof and swabbed an arc clean in front of Canu's face. A clamor grew downstream. A gaggle of fleeing Nalkies appeared over a rise in the beet field. Pari slid back into her seat.

"Ready?" said Canu.

"Wait," she said. She squinted up into the pasture across the river. Feril and Igwa's troops remained under cover. She saw no hint of their presence even though she knew exactly where to look.

Pari noticed activity by a ford just downstream from the causeway. A contingent of Cuasars was getting ready to ford across and cut off the Nalkies path to safety. She and Canu had been lucky to cross the causeway undetected.

Pari's gaze darted nervously to movements up the road, obscured by a wooded bend.

"How about now?" Canu chomped at the bit.

Pari poked her crossbow out the window and nodded.

"Okay," she said.

Canu made the red vehicle creep forward at a walking pace.

"Why so slow?" said Pari.

"It stays quiet thus way," Canu whispered. "When I go fast, it roars."

"They have eyes, Canu," said Pari. "You expect to hide something so bright and so red? And anyway, the point is to create a diversion. We want them to see us."

Canu stomped on the pedal. The back wheels showered red earth and the car roared away.

Pari leaned out the window with her crossbow. The car surged forward unexpectedly, nearly whipping her out into the dirt. Her crossbow slipped from her grip but she managed to pin it against the skin of the car and haul it back in.

"Warn me next time you do that," Pari scolded.

"It wasn't me," said Canu. "It was the car."

The Cuasars hiding by the river wheeled about and emerged into the plowed fields, exposing themselves.

"They see us! That's enough. Turn around."

Canu's eyes flitted down to the pedals on the floor. His face deconstructed into a panic.

"It doesn't work," he said. "I can't stop it."

"Press the pedal!"

"I did! It doesn't work. It's going by itself."

"How?"

Canu gripped the wheel as if it would fly away if he let go.

Pari resisted an urge to open the door and leap out. Too much speed. Too many trees growing close to the road.

They sped past a side trail opening into the forest and a large cluster of men on horses, men and beasts staring, stunned. Some drew lances and charged out into road.

"This is it Canu," she said. "There's no turning back."

"What do we do?"

"Don't look at me," said Pari. "This was your idea."

Wheels sliding in the soft earth, they swung around the bend, straight towards a Venep'o war wagon, drawn by armored oxen, bristling with turrets and fighting slots. Dust clouds rose from supporting companies of Crasacs and other wagons to its rear.

Across the river, an entire block of advancing Crasacs had stopped to watch the red object flying down the road. Feril's fighters took advantage of the moment to pour down the meadows into the invaders' flanks.

Canu found no combination of levers or pedals that could alter the pitch of the engine or modulate their speed.

Pari reached over and pulled a dangling strap over Canu's chest, clicking a latch into place by his hip.

The war wagon turned askew as the oxen attempted to bolt into a ditch.

Canu looked over at Pari. "We have no choice," he said, looking like a small, frightened boy behind his scraggly whiskers.

Pari reached for Canu's shoulder strap and buckled it for him before fastening her own. She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.
Chapter 36: Telephone

Miles and Misty barreled down the path, through a forest oozing with seeps and sloughs. Patches of gloom, the stubborn vestiges of night, lingered beneath the dense canopy. The roar of the waterfall had faded to a vague, directionless hum.

Miles recalled days earlier when he had followed that troop of fierce children in the opposite direction. He had mistaken Lizbet for a place name—a village with a Coca Cola stand and a mini-bus station where he could hop a ride to larger towns with travel agents and shuttles to international airports. The belief had buoyed his strides with the conviction that every step took him one step closer to home.

But Lizbet turned out to be a lady, and Gi a place far from the world he knew, maybe even beyond his imagining. But somehow it connected to Greymore, intermittently at least, by radio and cell phone. And then there was the matter of his car, parked half in a bog on some alpine moor. These primitive roads would be rough on a Prius, but its full tank could get them four hundred miles closer to civilization as he knew it. Perhaps.

For now, he sought a wireless signal strong enough and persistent enough for him and Misty to place two calls. The first, promised to Misty, would let her clear up some personal matter between her and her sister. And then Miles would dial 911.

He couldn't tell the operators the truth, or they would dismiss him as a crank. But he could pose as a lost hiker, and ask them to figure out where he was. They had ways of triangulating between cell towers to geolocate signals. Not that he expected a rescue team to be dispatched, but whatever they found might provide some clue as to his location.

Misty maintained a brisk pace, sandals clapping clay, crossing bridges one pole wide without pause. Miles had to push to keep up. His gaze alternated between the muddy path and Misty's muscular legs and taut butt.

"Hey Mist, you thirsty?" he said.

Misty stopped and shrugged.

He slid off his satchel. "Hold this for a second." He handed over the rifle while he fished around in his pack for the Poland Spring bottle he had refilled with water from Lizbet's spring. He offered it to Misty first, taking back the gun.

"Dang, that thing's heavy," said Misty, as the mouth of the bottle got caught up on her veil.

"What's with the veil, all of a sudden?"

Misty guzzled a mouthful of water and caught her breath. "I have to wear it. We're goin' out in public." She handed back the bottle.

"Public? We're in the middle of the woods."

"Don't matter," said Misty. "'Round here, it's polite to wear these. It's just good manners."

"You're quite the hiker," said Miles. "We'll make it there easy by afternoon."

"We do a lot of walking around these parts," said Misty, swiping a dip from her chin.

"Do you miss home?"

"Home?" said Misty. It was a simple enough question, but it seemed to puzzle her.

"Yeah. North Carolina, wasn't it?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it home. I mean, I lived there, but...."

"You've been away... how long?"

"Goin' on a year," said Misty. "But I don't actually miss it all that much. I mean, some friends, some kin, but I got a better life here. Least I did, before all this trouble started."

"How is it better?" said Miles, skeptical.

"Just... nicer... than the one I came from. Don't need to scramble for rent every month. No coke-fiend ex-boyfriends stalking me."

They pushed on through a stretch where twigs and fronds hung snapped and wilted where they encroached on the trail. Someone, many someones, had passed through in a rush. Refugees? Crasacs? Both?

The sun broke through, turning leaves translucent. Beams of light and shadow slanted through the haze, dappling the forest floor. When the shadows returned, a glow persisted down the trail. The landscape opened up beyond the rows of fluted boles.

Miles pushed ahead of Misty and stepped up the pace, eager to have open sky over his head again. As they reached the main road and he was about to burst out into the clear, Misty grabbed his shirt-tail.

"Wait," she said, peering up and down the road, nose lifted, making Miles think of a deer sniffing for hunters.

Across the road, cultivated fields stretched down to a fringe of trees lining the river. More fields stretched beyond until the land swooped up a set of steep and grassy hills topped with forest. The edge of one of the villages he passed through on his first day was visible. Every structure had its walls bashed in, thatch burned.

"Upstream, you said?" said Misty.

Miles nodded. "We cross the river at the second village."

"You must mean Xama," said Misty, stepping out onto the rutted main road. "There's a causeway there."

"Probably flooded now," said Miles. "Hope it's crossable."

The shuffling and clomping of many hooves made Miles look back. A large group of riders milled about several hundred meters behind them, partly obscured by a bend in the road.

"Is this market day or something?" said Miles.

"Market?" Misty turned. Her face blanched. "Off the road! Quick!"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"That ain't no market, Miles. Those are Cuasars!"

Miles drew back, hesitated, pursed his lips, dashed across the road and hopped a ditch.

"Miles, no! Not that way."

"There's a path by the river," he shouted back, sprinting into a weedy field. He followed a rim of packed clay between two plow tracks.

Murmurs and rumbles disturbed the air. Misty's sandals clapped through the mud behind him. He passed a pile of half-burned timbers remained where there had once been a hut and an animal shelter. The ashes were cold, and the rain had blended them into the muck and manure.

Double walls bracketed the riverside path. It ran along a willow brake, the river glinting just beyond. Miles headed for a gap in the wall separating it from the fields.

A clapping and clanking arose, like two by fours bouncing in the bed of a pickup truck. Miles looked at Misty. She seemed just as puzzled as him.

From across the river came shouts and whistles. A horn blew.

"What the fuck is going on?" said Miles.

Hoof beats pounded down the main road. Bushes rustled along the river bank. Something else trotted towards the field they had just crossed.

"Get between the walls," said Misty. They vaulted over and crouched in a patch of something resembling bamboo. Miles found himself eye to eye with a spider guarding a funnel-shaped web.

The hoof beats quieted.

"They gone?" said Misty, lifted her head cautiously.

"Not sure," said Miles. He peeked between two capstones at the muscular shanks of a mottled gray horse within spitting distance, stomping impatiently behind a thicket. The rider's attention was rapt on the commotion across the river. Trees blocked the view, but it looked like a mob was surging across some planted fields. Miles slid down, back to the wall.

"Stay down," he said. "One of them's stopped closeby."

The tinny strains of a La Bamba ringtone sounded from his pack.

"Shit! I thought I turned it off!" He fumbled with the pack's zipper, plunged his hand in, and hit the button to silence it. Luckily, the ringer had been set on low. He glanced at the Caller ID screen. "Christ, it's my mother."

"Don't pick up," said Misty.

Miles flipped it open.

"Miles? Thank God! Where've you—"

"Can't talk right now, ma, call you back!" He clapped it shut. His mind went fuzzy.

"That Cuasar," said Misty. "He's looking this way."

Dead leaves crackled as the rider turned his mount to face them.

Upstream, on the main road, a roar built, modulating to a screech. Miles knew only one thing that made that sound—the undersized internal combustion engine of a Prius being revved to the max.
Chapter 37: Contact

Toads swarmed the trail, pebbled skin of taupe and grey matching the grit of the trail bed but for a line of specks, yellow and teal that glowed like fluorescent jewels.

Unlike Tezhay and his volunteers, Frank took pains to avoid stepping on them. They all hopped in the same direction—away from the river, towards the hills.

Shouts and clanking sounded down the path. Rounds clicked into chambers. A yellow paintball splattered against a tree. Tezhay doubled back among his volunteers, cooing something in Giep'o to calm them down.

"What's going on?" said Frank.

"Fighting," said Tezhay.

Tezhay had his volunteers spread out along the path. They moved silently, like hunters. Frank did his best to mimic them, though he wasn't so nimble in choosing his steps and passing through the branches of deadfalls.

The shouts and tramping became louder as they approached the main road, visible only as a decrease in the density of the trees ahead. The volunteers stopped again and looked to Tezhay anxiously. A brief but intense argument ensued.

"They no want to go more closer," said Tezhay. "I tell them just a little more far. I want to see what is happen."

"What the hell were those kids thinking?" said Frank. "Going out and about at a time like this? Don't they know there's a war going on?"

"Who says they think?" said Tezhay.

An engine whined, straining at peak RPMs.

"What the hell?" Frank's jaw went slack. "Sounds like a... what's a freaking car doing here?"

"This... I need to see," said Tezhay. He took off running, his AK jouncing in his grip.

The volunteers looked at each other, and then followed after Tezhay en masse, leaving Frank standing alone in the path.

Frank took a long, slow breath and trotted after them.
Chapter 38: War Wagon

Miles popped up from behind the wall. "That's my car!" he said, his voice cracking.

"Get your ass down!" said Misty, remaining hunched on her knees.

The runaway Prius bounced over potholes, screaming like a missile towards the massive, armored and turreted wagon that had just creaked into view.

He crouched, peering above the wall. "Someone stole my fucking car."

"I can see that," said Misty.

The soldiers escorting the wagon had slipped behind it or peeled off into the woods. The team of six oxen pulling the war wagon also tried to flee. They wrenched at their yokes, scales of their articulated armor clanking, but were divided in their efforts to seek refuge. One changed its mind and joined a majority of five that dragged the lone dissenter with them into a field, wrenching the wagon askew.

A wheel the height of a man's shoulder slid into a flooded ditch, tilting the wagon a severe angle. Bow men in armor streaked with blue bailed out of a slotted turret as it teetered.

Speed unabated, the Prius struck a bump and elevated. It flew into the broad side of the wagon, crunching into its wooden frame like a stone hitting a rotten pumpkin, skidding it further into the ditch. Airbags exploded. The chassis snagged on shattered timbers and came to rest back end protruding, rear tires dangling.

The escorts stayed back as if they expected the Prius to emerge from the wreck and do battle with them, until one brave soul charged it with a pike, inspiring the others to rally, smashing side windows, slashing at its metal skin.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the wooded lane leading to Liz's farm. Several Crasacs fell. Yellow splotches spattered the wagon. The soldiers panicked and dispersed, several taking cover behind mounds of earth lining the main road, backs exposed to Miles and Misty. Miles looked at Misty, who had risen to her knees to peek over the wall. He took a deep breath and lifted the AK.

"Here goes," said Miles, lowering the selector lever, pulling back the charging handle. He braced one foot against the wall, and sent off a series of short bursts, using the mud kicked up by his misaimed shots to guide the killing spray towards the back side of several unsuspecting Crasacs who had taken up fighting positions behind the earthen mounds.

Miles' bullets flew wild and wide, but he got their attention and succeeded in flushing them from their cover. They fled down the road, away from the wreckage of the wagon and car.

Across the river, swarms of fighters spilled down a grassy long, slope into a mass of Crasacs advancing in ranks against another, retreating group.

"Miles! Cuasars! Coming this way!" Misty hopped the wall to get off the path. Miles tried to follow, but loose stones gave way. He toppled. The AK slid off his shoulder. He stooped to fetch the gun as Cuasars closed in, full gallop. Sabers sang, unsheathed.

Misty lunged and latched onto Miles's arm, jerking him back against the wall. Cuasars leaned to swipe at him, stirring a breeze with their saber tips. Stones ratcheted his vertebrae as Misty dragged him over the wall with more power than Miles thought her capable. The Cuasars moved on, too intent on retreating to engage them.

Miles pointed the AK at the backs of the receding Cuasars, but Misty slapped it away.

"Don't shoot!" said Misty. "You'll hurt their horses!"

"Fuck the horses, Misty. These people want to kill us."

Across the river, the formerly orderly ranks of Crasacs had collapsed and crumbled as the force pouring down from the hillside slammed into their flank. The Nalkies that had been under pursuit now rallied to attack the Venep'o front.

A series of patterned flags shot up in their center and the Crasacs reformed into defensive posture, swordsmen surrounded by shields and pikes while a circle of bowmen sniped from within.

The Crasacs held. The rally stalled. Another configuration of flags shot up and the Crasacs exploited the lull to retreat downstream across trampled fields. The Nalkies and their allies from the hillside held their ground and let the Crasacs escape.
Chapter 39: Medic

Frank cringed behind a brush pile, wondering how a Toyota Prius might have found its way to Gi and why its driver would collide intentionally with a metal-clad, wooden castle on wheels. Crasacs attacked the red car, slashing at its wheels, jabbing pikes into its body like hunters trying to dispatch a wounded beast.

Shadows, perhaps, concealed the presence of Tezhay and his volunteers from the Crasacs, who paid them no notice. In a widening of the path before the merge with the main road, Tezhay arrayed his group in a V with himself at the vertex.

He waited for a few more Crasacs to appear before grunting an order in Giep'o. Bullets and paint balls burst forth, dropping several Crasacs. The remainder, startled, quickly evacuated behind some mounds of dirt bounding a fallow field. They aimed their first volleys poorly, sending bolts that flew high over the volunteers' heads.

They kept low and out of harm from the volunteers' semi-automatic fire, popping up unpredictably, but in unison, to deliver more bolts. As the accuracy of their volleys improved, the volunteers were forced to take cover. One girl mistimed her dash across the trail and was met by a flurry of bolts. She collapsed, braids flying, into the middle of the path. Her AK splatted into a puddle.

The wounded girl's writhing form attracted more bolts like flies to a carcass. Frank darted out from behind the brush and grabbed her collar, dragging her off the road and into the trees behind the wedge of a massive, fluted root buttress, tall as a person and as sharp as a shark fin where it merged with the tree. He rolled her onto her side and peeled back her blouse. A long, black shaft impaled her in the crook of her arm and shoulder. She squirmed with pain. Blood soaked her side, but seeped more than gushed. It did not appear to be life-threatening.

He removed a pair of heavy shears from his bag and patted her gently. "Shhh! Stay still."

Bolts sprouted in the mud like black flowers. A single gun fired in the near distance, from across the road somewhere near the river. Frank took advantage of the girl's momentary distraction to clip the wooden shaft of the bolt about an inch above its entry point. He cut a hole in a gauze pad and taped it over the protruding shaft and then taped her arm to her torso to immobilize it. He would need better light, sterile irrigation and calmer circumstances to remove the rest of the bolt without nicking an artery.

The gunfire from the river had sent the confused Crasacs back over the mound into the more intense barrage coming from Tezhay and his volunteers. The few survivors fled down the road. The guns fell silent.

"I think we have find Miles and Misty," said Tezhay, unseen from behind a bush.

"Have we?" said Frank.

"Who do you think shoots from river?" said Tezhay.

Frank peered around the buttress. Through gaps he could see another group of Crasacs milling on the main road beyond the edge of the path. An officer with a cross-hatched flag regrouped them and got them moving forward through the thinned out forest.

"Tezhay, they're coming again!" Frank called.

Tezhay shook his head. "Bullet finish." He motioned his volunteers off the trail. Several slung their AKs and drew blades from their belts.

The girl's AK still lay in the path. The magazine was nearly full.

"Stay put. Stay, okay?" Frank pointed at the ground. The girl lay quiet against the roots, eyes inflamed, nostrils flared, but she seemed to understand.

Frank scrambled out on hands and knees, snatched the weapon by its sling, and dragged it back behind the tree. Frank took a breath, gritted his teeth and reared up, letting loose on full automatic, firing wildly until he had expended the entire clip.

His rounds chewed up plenty of vegetation but did little to deter the advancing Crasacs. A second group trotted in formation past the junction with the main road.

Frank's heart tripped over its own beats and loop-de-looped in his chest. He scuttled back behind the buttressed tree, dropped the AK and tried lifting the injured girl. She pushed him away, insisting by pantomime that she could walk.

"Back to the farm. Now. To Lizbet's," he said.

Instead, she muttered something, removed a knife from some strapping on her leg and held it in her unencumbered hand.

"No more fighting. It's finished. We have to go!" said Frank.

A low, warbling horn blew from somewhere far down the main road. Frank peeked around the tree, just in time to see a bright fluorescent green splotch appear on a startled Crasac's breast plate. Another paint ball splattered off the man's shoulder and into the face of a Crasac coming up from behind. The hopper of the villager who fired them remained half full.

To Frank's astonishment, the Crasacs reacted as if they had been struck with acid, wiping at the paint with handfuls of leaves, smearing their armor as they backpedaled to the main road. The Crasacs on the roadway had also turned and retreated towards Raacevo, as if the first group's panic was contagious.

Tezhay's face popped up over the root buttress. "You good?"

"Fine," said Frank.

"How is Eaamon?"

Frank drew a blank for a moment. "Stable," he said. "I need to get her back to the farm. I need my other gear to fish those damned barbs out and finish patching her up."

Frank stared through the trees at the retreating Crasacs and shook his head. "How is it that paint balls scare them more than bullets?"

"Is not just paint that scares them," said Tezhay. "Is army."

"What army?" said Frank.

Tezhay pointed down the trail. "That army," he said, as scores of fighters swarmed out of the river bed and into the fallow fields.

***

Fearing that another shoe had yet to drop, Miles took shelter with Misty in the cover of a copse that had served as a play space for the local children, as evidenced by little dolls made of string and twig, rope swings and tiny shelters of woven lath.

An uneasy calm had settled over the battlefield. The Crasacs and Cuasars had retreated from view, but the other fighters lingered, tending to the wounded and the dead, forming up lines of defense behind brakes and berms. They appeared to be bracing for a counterattack.

"This is our chance," said Miles. "We should go now."

"Go... where?" said Misty.

"What do you mean where? Didn't you want to make that call to your sister?"

"Don't you have service here?" said Misty.

Miles glanced at his phone. The bars that had appeared before were now absent. "It's gone," he said. "But I bet there's a signal up in the hills."

"Your car... won't be there ... anymore."

"Obviously not," said Miles.

Misty looked pained. "Don't know about you, Miles, but I ain't in any mood to talk to anyone right now. I just wanna go home."

"Home? You mean North Carolina?"

"I mean... back to Liz's farm."
Chapter 40: St. Johnsbury

Ara wandered, dazed, out of the town forest, past the playing fields and over the bridge into St. Johnsbury. Her eyes and feet did all of the navigating. Her head swam with too many regrets to care about reaching any particular destination.

Preoccupied by her cascade of failures, she dwelt on the ways she could have made things better. Inaction, in retrospect, seemed a better course. Doing nothing would have left Feril's group intact and kept her and her friends out of harm in some peaceful dell, subsisting on the land, cultivating the reluctant and strange little flower of her budding relationship with Canu. She couldn't bear thinking of the inevitable slaughter coming from the garrisons of Raacevo to all but her.

She veered left along the river, hooked right without thinking about where it took her. After a while, recognition flared and the logic of her meanderings came clear.

She was heading to the poorer side of town, a place she had once lived near the end of her time in Ur, the only time she had slept under a roof.

Across the way, a sign with white letters over green, Central Street, sent her head spinning. She had scoured this place from memory, vowed never to return. She had abandoned a person here once, someone with whom she had nothing in common and whose attraction seemed as involuntary and unexplainable as what she felt with Canu.

Michael.

***

Ara crossed Railroad Street and turned down Central. When she spotted the white clapboards of the Kingdom Recovery Center, something rippled in her chest. Her head blurred almost as if she had passed through another portal.

Three years ago, this was where she had found Michael (or Michael had found her) and her assimilation into Urep'o life suddenly accelerated. Until then she had wandered between forest and street on the periphery of Venep'o society, outside looking in, foraging scraps left behind on picnic tables or dumped into trash bins.

She had followed a queue of scruffy and paunchy Urep'o into Dr. Bob's, as the Recovery Center was called, thinking there might be food, or at least something worth queuing for. Thus, she enrolled herself in an alcoholic rehabilitation program without ever having ingested alcohol beyond the occasional spoiled plum.

Michael had worked there as a facilitator. He had gone through the twelve steps himself and represented one of their success stories. He was young, not much older than Ara, though his face even then seemed prematurely creased.

Ara found herself gravitating towards him despite herself. Was it his large brown eyes? Playful lips that found a hundred ways to grin? Maybe it was his soothing demeanor and god-like patience.

He noticed her watching him. "You're new here, aren't ya?" he said. "What's your name?"

"Ara."

"Just... Ara? What? You don't have a last name?"

"John," said Ara, blurting out the first Urep'o sounding appellation that came to her.

The corner of Michael's lip curled slightly. "Ara John, it is. Welcome to Dr. Bob's. Here's a clipboard to fill out your details. Sign the waiver if you agree to give up your first born."

"What?"

"Just a joke. Read it. It's just standard mumbo-jumbo. Er... you do read English, don't you?"

"Oh yes!" said Ara, even though she was quite baffled by the sheet that Michael handed her. Nevertheless, she filled in every slot whether she understood what they were asking or not, entering 'no thank you' under 'sex' and 'town forest' under 'address.'

The men in the room, and they were predominantly men, were already sizing her up, some to the point of leering. One scrawny fellow came over and started in with the ritualized and ridiculous courtship badinage so common in Ur, where insults passed for flirting.

Michael intervened, herding her suitor away as if she were a sheep who had blundered into a pack of wolves, though this sheep could have gutted any or all of these mangy wolves with the blade tucked into her sock.

After the session, he took her aside. "Got a place to stay? Some place safe?" He mimed a pillow with his hands, aware of the limits to Ara's English comprehension.

"Yes," said Ara.

"Then why did you write the town forest as your address?"

"It's where I sleep. It is safe... but... cold."

"You're homeless," he said. "Nothing to be ashamed of. It's not anybody's fault in this economy. Lots of folks coming through Dr. Bob's have had a stint or two on the street. I normally send them over to the shelter on Railroad Street, but I hear they're overbooked." Michael's eyes filled with calculation and concern. "I can get in touch with social services. You might be better off in Montpelier. They have more capacity, more charity. St. Johnsbury's not the greatest place to be without a home."

"It is not good, no," said Ara, smiling, not quite understanding everything he said.

"Or..." he said, scrunching his face in a sort of wince. "I'm not supposed to do this." His eyes flitted. "But I've got a couch. I can let you crash... until a slot opens at the shelter. Or... you find a job. Get your own place. Whatever."

"Okay," said Ara, not remembering what exactly a couch was but, with a blade tucked in her sock and the assurance of Michael's kind eyes, she was willing to try anything.

The Philosophers sent apprentice Travelers like her to Ur with the minimum of preparation, forcing them to process everything they encountered without any distortion or preconception by prior Travelers. In the early days, before Michael, she had been like the deer that occasionally wandered out of the forest onto the city streets—one more feral forager.

But staying with Michael accelerated her assimilation. It gave her the crucible that helped her decipher Urep'o culture and language and learn the secrets of survival in a place so inhospitable.

They were never lovers. He wanted it and her snubs saddened him but he never forced the issue.

Ara wanted no entanglements. She knew she would return to Sesei alone, likely never to return to St. Johnsbury. Michael seemed content enough to have her reside on his couch. He kept chattering about finding her an open slot at the shelter, but he was in no hurry to do so. It was just another ritual to satisfy his pretenses.

***

Ara had lived in St. Johnsbury for less than one year. It seemed odd that her return could feel so much like a homecoming. She turned onto Pearl Street and worked her way down to 66a. Chipped concrete steps led down to a battered door. Bluish light flickered behind the window. Finger noodle and plucked on a guitar. She knocked on the door, even though she knew there to be a key between the drip tray and flower pot holding a petrified geranium. The guitar noodlings evaporated. A chair creaked.

The brass occluding a spy hole in the door slid away. Latches clicked.

The door swung open, revealing a face she barely recognized. The big round eyes that once charmed her had sunken deep into their sockets.

"Michael?" she said. "What happened to you?"

"Ara? It's Ara, right? Oh my God! How are you?" His voice was hoarse and wheezy.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah. Sure. Come right in." His eyes looked famished, as if they sought to devour every bit of light coming their way.

Ash trays overflowed. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Dark specks—coffee? Blood?—spattered the futon in the corner. Grease matted the shag carpet. The place smelled like the inside of a dumpster.

"Wasn't expecting company," said Michael. "You gotta pardon my appearance."

"Are you... have you been... ill?"

His neck and wrists were riddled with weeping, picked away scabs.

"Naw. I'm okay. Not working. And I got a bit of a meth habit goin'. How you been?"

"Fine," said Ara.

"Oh yeah? What you been up to? You're looking good. Real good. Got kind of a woodsy glow about ya. Get yourself an outdoor job, did ya?"

"In a sense. Yes."

"Where you been... all this time?"

"Away," said Ara, afraid to touch anything.

"Hey listen, uh... I get my disability on Friday. I'm a little short. Can you spare a couple bucks? I can let you stay here."

"I... I really can't," said Ara. "I've got nothing right now. I just came to say hi. Let you know I was in town. I was on my way... somewhere... and thought I'd pay you a visit. I'd better be heading off. I'll see you soon."

"But you just got here," he said, his flaccid jowls quivering. "We haven't even had time to chat. Catch up on things."

"I'll see you soon," said Ara. "Really. I'm supposed to be meeting someone."

"Who ya meeting?" His eyes fluttered; his face twitched. "Is it John?"

"Who's John?" said Ara. "I don't know any John."

Michael seized Ara's wrist and tried to restrain her from going to the door.

"Let go of me, Michael."

"What is it, Ara? Is it the way I look? It's just the meth. I'm still me inside. And I'll clean up. Especially with you here now. I just need a little to get by till my next disability check."

"I said, let go of me, Michael. I don't want to have to hurt you."

He tried pulling Ara closer. She swung her leg and cut him down at the back of his knees. An elbow to the chest accelerated his tumble.

"I told you... to let go!"

"Ara... I don't understand."

She headed for the door. "I'm sorry Michael. But I'm not strong to take care of you right now. I'm having trouble enough coping with myself."

***

Ara walked to the fringes of St. Johnsbury as fast as her feet would carry her, to the Route 28 underpass where the cops on patrol used to watch over her, letting her sleep there night after night, undisturbed. She had spotted no other homeless on her way through town, unsure of whether that was a good or a bad sign.

The back streets of St. Johnsbury looked no less decrepit than in her day. Maybe the police were cracking down on vagrants, chasing them out of town or shipping them off to shelters in another city, like Montpelier.

She set her back against the slant of concrete and listened to the rumble of trucks overhead. Though the leaves remained green, a chill was settling in. The air had a brittle feel to it, conveying a sense of ice and snow, though the temperature remained well above freezing. She wished she had borrowed a blanket from Michael, soiled or not. She was dressed for Gi, where the land below the mountains never froze.

Seeing Michael's condition filled her with loss, as if a good friend had died, even though he still walked and breathed. She had no regrets for not sticking around. Michael couldn't hardly provide shelter and sustenance for himself anymore, never mind take care of her. She could never abide the ghoulish creature he had become or the filth of his apartment.

It would soon be harvest season in Sesei. If she had followed the postman back to Ubabaor, she had relatives who could take her in.

It would be difficult to pass unnoticed. This route had become one of the busiest relays in the system due to the sheer volume of militia who had infiltrated Gi. This also made it the most closely watched and regulated, opening straight into the heart of the Cadre's central academy.

But it wouldn't be long before soldiers started trickling back in retreat, if Ingar's influence held. Perhaps then Ara could blend in with the crowds.

For now, she was penniless in a world fueled by cash. Come November, the margins of the lakes would freeze. Vegetable gardens would be tilled over. She could not persist outdoors in the nights to come.

She wondered if the restaurant where she had once washed dishes might hire her back. She would need a job re-establish herself in this world, something that paid in cash, preferably 'under the table' as Michael had once described it, so that she might remain invisible to the authorities.

She wished she knew of an easier place to start a new life in Ur than St. Johnsbury. She had been mistaken for a Filipina once. Would life in the Philippines might be any easier than in Vermont? Maybe she would first give Montpelier a go.

Ara left the underpass and wandered back into town. She almost hoped the police would pick her up and put her into custody overnight. At least they might give her a warm blanket and some food.

As the streetlamps flickered on, she thought of her time in Greymore with Canu. It had been much more fun to have a fellow conspirator in Ur, even someone of Canu's arrested maturity. Canu met deprivation and stress with aplomb. He had a way of finding calm amidst turbulence, of softening tragedy with humor.

She missed him.
Chapter 41: Hospital

Seor awoke to a clarity she had not felt in many days. Prior awakenings had left her suspended half in dream, half in murky reality. The price of a clear head was a pain as crisp and bright as the linens that enveloped her. A hundred blades sliced through her midsection when she tried to sit up. But the pain was good. To hurt was to live, to be human, not some drugged wraith.

Glassy sacks dangled from metal stands, connected by tubes to a nipple on her wrist. Her Urep'o healers, she suspected, piped philters to her veins to forcibly separate her from her senses. She tried to rip the tube away, but straps restrained her.

Clicks and whirs and beeps like alien fauna, engulfed her and multiplied down the corridor from the other rooms. Human voices boomed overhead from people unseen, reverberating as if through a cavern.

She reacquainted herself with her limbs, clenching and unclenching fingers and toes, absorbing the layout of her room. The little table hanging over the bed held a tray of neatly wrapped food she had no intention of eating. A set of metal cuffs, connected by a chain rested on a shelf below it. The man assigned to watch her had attempted to attach them to her ankle until a scolding from a fierce, pastel-clad healer dissuaded him.

The wave of drowsiness engulfed her without warning. She fought to stay alert, but was helpless against its power. It dragged her out of the world, down to the place where neither free will nor pain could dwell.

***

Dima, her daughter, visited often in her potion-induced dreams. In many, Dima was a young woman come to polish Seor's bones. Seor would lift her arm and a sullen Dima would brush off the dust and swab it with oil.

In a blink she would transform into Dima as Seor last knew her, several years younger than she was today, if she still lived, but not yet a woman.

"Momma! You're back!" the younger Dima would say, running down the walk between orchard and kitchen that was her domain, a world of tiny homesteads shaped from clay, inhabited by fingerling dolls with acorn heads and mushrooms for beds.

The house of Seor's sister, Naan, smoldered roofless in the background. Crasacs marched beyond the gate.

"Where's Auntie?" said Seor.

"They took her," said Dima. "But they let me stay."

"Are they kind to you?"

"No," said Dima, matter-of-factly.

"What do you eat? Where do you sleep?"

"I make cakes out of mud," said Dima. "And I sleep with my dolls, in their little houses. I can make myself very small. The size of a cricket. Did you know that?"

"I see," said Seor, gazing down the hill, trying to make sense out of the jumbled remains of her village. Only a few trees remained standing over the rubble.

"Momma?"

"Yes, Dima?"

"Are you coming for us?"

"Of course."

"When?"

"Soon. I'll be there soon."

***

When she next awoke, hands were slipping beneath her knees and behind her shoulders, not the soft hands of her nurse, but hands that were thick and rough as a farmer's. These hands took little care, slinging her around like a sack of meat.

She winced but did not resist. She did not even open her eyes, grown accustomed to night-time intrusions from healers of diverse gentleness, whisking her down halls and up vertically mobile rooms to coffin-like chambers that buzzed and whined.

As the spider webs fell from her eyes, Seor saw she was in the hands of no healer. It was Baas. She squirmed out of his grip. Her bare feet squeaked on the floor. She tried to flee. Baas leaped and tackled her, wrestling her into submission. His knife pricked her throat.

"Fight me and it all ends in a puddle of red."

Seor kept still. There should have been nurses about, even this late, but the nearest station was silent.

Baas was clad in the blue, one-piece garb of the medical attendants that traveled in rolling infirmaries.

He plonked her down onto a chair with wheels and rolled her down the hall.

A shape lay still on the floor behind a curtain, bare legs protruding.

"Did you—?"

"Shut up," said Baas. He wheeled her out into the cool night, to one of the vehicles that had been used to carry her to the healing center from the patch of ferns where Ren had died and Seor had fallen.

Baas opened the front door of the vehicle and hauled Seor roughly out of the wheeled chair and shoved her onto the front seat.

"I need to lie down. It... hurts if I sit too long."

"You will sit and be quiet."

Blood smeared the seat. Droplets, not yet dry, speckled the glass. Baas slammed her door and walked around the nose of the vehicle. Seor used those few seconds apart from Baas to search for something to use as a weapon. The best she could manage with her mind mired in cement was a thin board with a metal fastening a sheet of paper which she grabbed and shoved between her seat and the door.

Baas slid in beside her and coaxed the machine to life. He fumbled with a lever that guided the vehicle backwards, then forwards, flopping Seor forth and back as if she were a boneless doll. The jolt drew a flare of pain in her side. A swarm of flecks swooped in and clogged her vision. She slumped against the door and passed out.

***

Sometime later, Seor's eyes opened to find the vehicle zooming down brightly lighted hardtop striped and dashed with yellow paint. Stubbled grass lined both sides of an endless corridor of conifers.

A half-empty bottle of water sat on the seat beside Baas. Some other object bulged under a folded map. She reached for the water. Baas' hand slammed down and pinned her wrist before she could touch it.

"Please. I'm thirsty."

Baas dipped his brow and released her wrist.

Seor took the flimsy bottle and untwisted the cap, and lifted it, hands shaking, to her chapped lips. She sipped enough to moisten her mouth and replaced the cap. She took a deep, aching breath and studied Baas' silhouette. His face alternately brightened and darkened under the Flashes of light alternately illuminated his face and left him in shadow.

"Why do this?" she said. "Why not just kill me?" Her fingers pried at the metal clip on the board she had sequestered. She searched in vain for a sharp edge.

Baas stared straight ahead. "You know things. And there are those in Sesei who would want to know the things you know."

"Didn't stop you from trying to kill me before," said Seor.

"You're all that's left. Besides me."

"Baren is he—?"

"Dead," said Baas.

"How did you—?"

"They track me with dogs, flying machines. I ran beyond the places they searched. But when they stopped looking, I returned. To find you."

"How?"

"It's what I do," said Baas. "It's why I am cadre."

"Listen, Baas. I am not healed. I may not last in this condition with no healers to help me. I think I am bleeding inside."

"You'll last long enough for my purpose," said Baas. "If you die... so be it. I tried to deliver you."

"Let me heal first and you can guarantee."

"No time," said Baas. "Our people need to know."

"That xenolith was destroyed," said Seor. "How are you taking me to Sesei?"

"By another." Baas lifted the map to reveal a contrivance of brass wheels and wooden slats.

***

The vehicle had stopped. Red and blue lights flashed over a patch of yellowed grass and withered wildflowers. Seor felt as if she was peering up from the bottom of a deep well.

She peeked into the little mirror that poked out from the body of the vehicle like the appendage of a beetle. A figure sprawled on the pavement. Baas leaned into the open window of the other vehicle, searching, hands busy. The flashing ceased.

Baas trotted back, wiped his hands on a dark cloth, climbed in and slammed the door. He slipped something heavy and angular into his waist and surged off down a road devoid of traffic.

Seor hovered, in too much pain to sleep. She shifted constantly, her body seeking fruitlessly a comfortable position that did not exist.

It was still dark when Baas pulled off the wide road into a brightly lighted parking lot filled with large, multi-wheeled machines dragging boxes the size of a long house.

"Where are we?" asked Seor.

"We walk from here."

"To where?"

"Into the forest," he said. "You should know this place. This is the relay you were to use... if you actually intended to join us in Gi."

"Do you expect a convergence? Soon?"

"We just missed one," said Baas. "Too bad. It was big. But there is an aftershock due tomorrow. Tabulator says it's impassable but I think it should be wide enough for two of us to squeeze through ... if we time it right."

Baas came around and hauled her out of her seat, flinging her into the lot. She stumbled like a sleepwalker as a man with stringy, grey hair walked by and hopped up into the cab of his vehicle. Seor saw the man glance and glance again. She tried to seize his gaze with her eyes, hoping to send a message that any human should understand.

"Stop staring at him!" said Baas, squeezing her arm.

They passed behind one of the boxy wagons, dark and detached, like a headless caterpillar. Baas stopped and looked up at the cloudless sky.

"We need daylight to find our way. I'll get you hidden and we'll wait for the sun."

They crashed through the shrubs and came to a place where the trees were large and widely-spaced and the footing was spongy. They walked around to the backside of a small hill. Tiny lights were visible across a wide pond. Beyond, a dome of diffuse glow marked the presence of a small city.

Baas lashed Seor's wrists and ankles together and secured them to a pair of stout saplings.

"I'll go and get you some food," he said.

"Feed yourself," said Seor. "Don't bother with me."

"You will eat," said Baas. "I'm bringing you back alive."

"But why? What use am I to you?"

"You know about the counterforces. Who leads them. How they are organized. Don't you?"

"How would I know such things? I'm not even sure they exist."

"Don't tell me that," said Baas, his voice low and slow, dripping with accusation. "We both know you led one."

"Oh yes, that was us. A counterforce. Sesei's ultimate elite assassins. Canu and Pari and Ren and...."

Baas jerked her arm, made her wince. "Don't joke with me. I know better."

"You terribly overestimate us, Baas."

"No," said Baas. "Baren underestimated you. I know exactly who you are." He stomped off into the underbrush, crunching through the dry leaves, footsteps fading into silence.

Seor settled back and squirmed in the leaf litter, seeking a position that minimized the pain, which had outgrown its welcome. But it was only pain, nothing grave. She didn't bleed. Her heart was strong. Her head remained clear.

Despite the circumstances, the prospect of returning to Ubabaor cheered her. She knew she would be hauled into the depths of some cadre prison and interrogated, perhaps using methods borrowed from the Venep'o. Not they would need to do much to torture her. Sitting her up would do the trick.

But at last she would be breathing the air of Sesei again, the same air as Dima, if Dima still breathed. At least, when she died, she would die in her homeland.
Chapter 42: Allies

Canu pawed at the half-deflated sack that enveloped him. Scrapes stung the side of his nose and cheek. Blood seeped from his scalp and trickled into his eyes. He patted the seat beside him for Pari, pricking his hand on the head of a barbed pike entangled in the springs.

A groan arose from the floor. The other air bag started to ripple. Canu ripped it away to find Pari curled up on the floor, dazed and bruised. He extricated the snapped-off pike and helped her back onto her seat. She still clung to her crossbow.

"How are you feeling?" said Canu.

Pari stared straight ahead, breathing hard, eyes foggy, saying nothing. Canu raked his fingers through her scalp. He found lumps, no signs of fracture.

"Haha! Look at me. I'm the healer, now."

Life flowed back into her eyes as he watched. She moved slowly, like chilled dragonfly being warmed by the sun. Her pupils focused. She pulled a cloth from her bosom and daubed at the blood running down the groove beside Canu's nose.

"I am never... following you again," she said. "Understood?"

"I never asked you to come with me," said Canu.

"You said you would turn around," said Pari.

"I couldn't."

"So instead you aim for a war wagon?"

"Where would you have me go? To the Alar's house?"

"Into the river would have been fine. Even the muddy fields would have stopped you."

Voices clamored. Could they be cheers? Pari knelt on the seat and squinted through the lace of the shattered back window. "They're coming back!" She scrambled to reload her crossbow.

Canu got out and climbed onto a hunk of the shattered wagon. Fighters had come up from the river bank and had fanned across the fields. Few wore armor. Most carried short swords and long bows.

"Simmer down," said Canu. "These look like Nalkies."

"Igwa?"

"Don't think so," said Canu. "Someone else."

Many of the fighters coming across the fields wore sueded leggings, uncommon to Igwa's band. Their veils were imprinted with nested triangles linked in chains unlike the broad, earth-toned stripes that the eastern Nalkies favored.

Another, smaller group emerged onto the road from a forest path brandishing Urep'o weapons.

"Those people," said Canu. "If it wasn't for them...." He couldn't finish the thought.

"We'd be dead," said Pari. "Who are they?"

A clear-eyed man with wavy hair and a jaunty gait strode up to the car. He threw open the back hatch of the vehicle. He was clearly Sesep'o.

"What an interesting coach," he said. "Where did you acquire it?"

"Not as interesting as your weapon," said Canu. "Seems we might be fellow travelers."

"You're no Traveler," said the man. "I am Tezhay, of the Philosopher's Guild. What is your excuse?"

Canu was taken aback. He didn't know whose side this man might be on. "I am... we are... just soldiers," said Canu. "Lost soldiers. This vehicle is here despite us, not because of us."

"I am sure you have an interesting tale to tell," said Tezhay, looking past the damaged wagon. "But we don't want to be telling it to the Crasacs. They seem to be regrouping. We should not linger."

"Your weapons... could hold them off," said Canu.

"Empty," said Tezhay. "We did not come expecting a battle."

The Traveler looked back towards the Nalkies coming across the fields. More troops, including Sesep'o militia had crossed the river behind them.

"Where is your leader?" said Tezhay. "This spot is not defensible. But I can suggest a place that is."

"We... I don't have a leader," said Canu. "But Captain Feril and Igwa lead the force that came down from those hills. I don't know these other Nalkies."

Knots of the Giep'o rebels came forward and seeped into landscape, infiltrating what little cover it had to offer as they halted out of bow range of the enemy forces gathering down the road. Among them walked a Urep'o couple, the man bearing a weapon just like comrade Tezhay's.

"Oh my," said the Traveler. "Look who we have here."

***

Miles must have looked scared. Misty leaned over and whispered: "It's okay, Miles. These guys look friendly." She patted his shoulder gently.

But it wasn't fear that made Miles quiver. His eyes were tethered to the Connecticut license plate of the red Prius wrecked against that monster of a wagon. They weaved their way through the carcasses of the oxen that had fallen in the crossfire.

"They wrecked my car," said Miles, snorting like an angry bull. "They wrecked my fucking car."

"Don't think your insurance is gonna pay for this one," said Misty.

The young man standing next to the Prius stared at Miles. The man's bloody face could not disguise the crazed eyes that had haunted Miles in the parking lot behind the rock shop. Miles cringed.

"Oh my God, it's him!"

"Who?" said Misty.

"One of the ones who sent me here." Miles checked his clip. A few rounds remained. He raised the gun. "You... stay away from me."

Tezhay strode up to him. "Give me that!"

"No," said Miles. "That's the guy who... kidnapped me."

Tezhay snatched and ripped it from his grip.

"Give it back! That's Tom's gun."

"First, you learn how to hold it," said Tezhay. "We no point at friend."

"Friend? This guy?"

"He is Sesep'o," said Tezhay. "He fights with us. Look what he does to this wagon."

"Yeah, with my own damn car," said Miles.

"Is your, this car?" said Tezhay. "How you get it here?"

"I keep telling you guys. The car is how I got to this place."

"By driving?" Tezhay smirked.

"Not... exactly."

"I think I understand," said Tezhay. "Is iron, the steel. Make the convergence stronger."

"What's a... convergence?" said Miles.

Tezhay sighed. "If you don't know. It's better I not tell you. Just be happy we find you. You are lucky."

"Funny," said Miles. "I don't feel lucky."

"Is not good time to move on the roads," said Tezhay. "You could be killed."

Another wagon like the one that was destroyed creaked into view up the road. Cuasars probed the defenses near the river.

"Tezhay!" called a female voice.

They all turned to see a man and two women trotting up on captured Cuasar horses, skittish and barely under their control.

"Oh my God. Teo? Idala? And who is this? Bimji?"

***

The three dismounted. Teo and Idala bumped Tezhay's shoulders with vigor. Bimji hung back, his posture off-kilter, as if he had a problem with his arm or shoulder. Tezhay hugged him gently, avoiding any pressure on his bad side.

"It's been years," said Tezhay. "Your face has taken some damage."

"You're looking frayed at the edges yourself," said Bimji.

"I met your wife, finally," said Tezhay.

Bimji's eyes widened. "Is she here? She's okay?"

"She's fine. She's back at your place."

Bimji's breath gushed in relief.

"But there is a complication," said Tezhay. "Did you know that she had an Urep'o husband?"

"Of course," said Bimji. "When she was young. When she lived in Ur."

"He is here," said Tezhay.

"Oh!" said Bimji, putting his hand over his mouth. "Bowen?"

Tezhay nodded. "He is also called Doctor Frank. He is a healer."

"Frank?" said Bimji. "Frank Bowen? Oh, this is... amazing. This is wonderful. She must be so happy. Lizbet was almost a child when she knew him."

"Frank?" said Idala. "Are you talking about my Frank?"

"Where is the good doctor?" said Teo.

"He is bringing a casualty back to the farm," said Tezhay. "Though, maybe he should have stayed here. I see you have plenty of wounded."

"We have healers enough," said Teo. She stared down the road at the gathering enemy. "What you see here is just the vanguard. There was a larger body mobilizing on the outskirts of Raacevo."

"Why are you here?" said Tezhay. "Is this... the counteroffensive?"

"I was hoping you would know," said Teo. "We came to learn why the Mercomar blinked out. These other fighters... the ones who saved us... some are Nalki but the rest are militia. Could it be?"

"Did you see eight flashes of eight?" said Tezhay.

"Two," said Teo. "We saw two and then nothing. Not enough to mobilize us all, but enough to make us curious."

Tezhay smirked. "Two? Are you sure?"

"One to the north and one to the west," said Teo.

"Venep'o do everything in threes," said Tezhay. "They're obsessive that way. They would sooner burn down their tower than let a triplet go uncompleted."

"Which is why we came... in part," said Teo. "And explains the Venep'o response. Akin to poking the Alar with a hot stick. We didn't intend to come this far. But they trapped us near the road to Verden. It was the only direction we could flee."

"I don't think Bimji is complaining," said Idala.

Bimji grinned, though his eyes seemed anxious.

"So who sabotaged the Mercomar?" asked Teo. "Do we even know?"

"Maybe it was them," said Tezhay, nodding towards the contingent of Nalkies and militia approaching across the fields, some bearing goods from a plundered Venep'o supply wagon that had come forward prematurely along the river path.

"It was me," said the young man who had driven the red car.

"You? Alone?"

"He had help," said the woman accompanying him.

"Lots of help," said a sweaty militia captain who came striding up, out of breath. He clasped hands in the manner of greeting used along Sesei's coast. "Captain Feril, of Diomet, Seventy-second militia." His clothes were clotted with clumps of mud and smears of blood.

"Who are you people?" said Tezhay. "Do you fight for the Second Cadre?"

"Of course," said Captain Feril.

"Not me," said the driver of the car. His companion jabbed her elbow into his ribs. "I... I fight for... Sesei."

"So the counteroffensive... it's happening, after all," said Teo, looking energized but uncertain. "But I see only one company of militia. Where are the others?"

"I am sure we will see them soon," said Captain Feril. "I suspect it takes some time to mobilize them. They've been camped in the marsh for months."

Tezhay sidled close to Teo and spoke softly, not intending Captain Feril to overhear. "Any chance we might be dealing with rogues here?"

"Not at all!" said Feril. "Our orders came straight from Commander Baren."

"We need to move. Now!" said Idala. "The Cuasars have locked shields. They're forming up in their tight, little boxes. They await only a flag to advance."

"Where to?" said Teo. "Across the river?"

"My farm commands the heights beyond this forest," said Bimji. "It's guarded by cliffs. A good place to organize a defense."

"Done," said Teo, who nodded to Idala. She whistled long and loud, and her Nalkies peeled back from their positions.

Captain Feril made arrangements with the other Nalki leader for a phased retreat up the forest path, sending riders forward to screen their movements.

Tezhay sought and captured Captain Feril's eye. "I just wanted to tell you," he whispered. "Even if you are rogues. It doesn't mean I disapprove."
Chapter 43: Homeless

The strip of diners and restaurants along Railroad Street had been prime territory for foraging during Ara's early days in St. Johnsbury. She weaved down the sidewalks, scanning tables, circling into back lots to peer into kitchens – just scouting for now. Closing time was when the good stuff got tossed. Now was the time to scope out what places offered the best prospects for a meal.

Having made the rounds of all of the sit-down dining establishments, from Anthony's Diner at the far end of Railroad Street to Dylan's Café near the bridge, she saved her favorite place for last. She crossed the street to Natural Provisions, a bakery and health food store whose hearty breads had formed the basis of many a free meal in her day.

She strolled into the store, smiling at the girl at the register, sampling some cookies, perusing the bread counter for the day old marked-down items that would later be hauled out to the bin. She spotted an olive ciabatta and a bag of garlic mini-baguettes that made it worth lingering in the area, as the store would close soon. The staff here was friendly to homeless folks, never soiling the items they tossed, placing sacks beside the back door so scavengers could avoid the indignity of having to climb into a dumpster to fetch them.

She went back outside to wait, stepping into the closed storefront of a clothing shop to get out of the brisk wind. She needed to find herself a jacket. Once she got her bread she would head for the coin-operated laundromat on Eastern Avenue whose lost-and-found table once provided the bulk of her wardrobe.

A man was coming across the bridge on foot. He had an odd, bouncy gait – the stiff but powerful sway of the muscle-bound. Something about the way he strode seemed familiar.

Ara wondered if he could be one of her old friends, one of the job-hopping street musicians and artists she used to spend time with, hopefully someone who had taken care of himself better than Michael. She ducked back out onto the sidewalk and swung behind the man as he turned off the bridge.

She was tempted to call out, but wanted to make sure that she really knew this person so as not make a fool of herself.

The man crossed the street towards Dylan's café. As he passed under a streetlamp, a chill rippled through Ara that had nothing to do with the northwest wind blowing in from Canada.

The man was Baas! Commander Baren's cruel lieutenant.

Heart thumping, Ara stopped and turned back the other way, slipping into a tiny park fronting a darkened real estate office. She peeked around a hedge. Baas was gone, probably inside the café.

Ara crawled under the overgrown, over-pruned yew, peering through the gaps between the branches. She kept her eyes fixed on the walk leading up to the café. Long minutes passed before Baas re-emerged. Instead of retracing his steps, he came up the street towards Ara, carrying a large, brown bag.

Ara settled into the depths of the yew, careful not to bump or jiggle its twisted boughs. Baas bounced by, wearing wore blue coveralls of the type a paramedic might wear. Threads dangled where he had ripped off various patches and insignia. He tossed a glance her way, sniffing, wrinkling his brow, but he kept on moving.

She wondered how he had managed to order take-out. Through grunts and pointing, she supposed, because Baas had never tried to learn a word of English, despite Ara's efforts to tutor Baren's entire entourage.

From beneath the hedge, she watched him cross the road and start over the bridge. He carried a lot of food, surely he didn't plan to eat it all himself. Who was waiting by the portal for him? Baren? Or maybe Kera, her dearest friend and confidante among the ill-fated contingent of cadre that Baren had brought to Ur.

It seemed impossible that they all could have survived an armed confrontation with every police officer Greymore could muster, but Baas was walking proof that some had emerged from the fracas intact.

Ara climbed out from under the bush, took a few steps down the sidewalk and darted across the road to the bridge.

***

A children's soccer match was finishing up across the river. Lights glared down over people dispersing across a field of grass too green for nature. Baas walked against the grain, nudging, shoving any who got in his way. Ara picked a more sinuous route, skipping from group to group, pretending to join them, taking pains not to reveal to Baas that he was being followed.

Baas made a bee line straight for one of the relay stones, displaying not the slightest concern who noticed him, as if the people of Ur were no more than motile shrubs, to be uprooted or cut down at his whim.

He crossed a cinder track and started up a rise covered in tall, herbaceous scrub. At the top of the embankment he left the wash of light and entered the darkness. Ara hemmed, weighing her fear of physical harm against her wish to know who among the cadre had survived. Curiosity won.

She crossed to the edge of the field and climbed the scrubby slope on a line parallel but offset a good fifty paces from the path Baas had taken. Before she could reach the top, the lights illuminating the field blinked out. Ara paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust. A partial moon shed just enough to highlight the vegetation, but she had lost track of Baas.

She proceeded cautiously, feeling like prey even though she was the hunter. She knew the area quite well, in darkness and light. The xenoliths it harbored were the same that had brought her to and from St. Johnsbury when she was in Travelers' school. She just wanted to get close enough to hear voices, to ascertain who had survived. She particularly wanted to know if Kera was okay.

The slope leveled and transitioned to a narrow strip of trees bordering a meadow that harbored the relay to Gi. The Sesei relay sat deep in the forest beyond. Ara passed to the edge of the trees and waited, squinting into the darkness. She spotted the silver-brushed form of Baas just as he entered the thicker forest across the meadow.

Ara waited, heart pounding, till she was certain he had passed deep enough to be out of sight of the meadow. She stepped out into un-mowed grass, studded with young trees working hard to convert the meadow to forest. She moved in bursts and pauses. Each step closer to peril took her pulse up a notch. She began to question the wisdom of her pursuit.

A flurry of movement came from her left. A coyote, perhaps? A fox? Too lithe and quick to be Baas.

A dark blotch marked a dense patch of shrubs in the center of the meadow. She resolved to minimize her risk. She would burrow beneath them and lay low, waiting and watching until her former comrades betrayed their presence. She wished she had picked up that bread before following Baas.

A wiry arm seized her. A hand clapped over her mouth.
Chapter 44: Casualties

The wounded girl's name was Eaamon. She had communicated that much to Frank, but not much else. She couldn't have been much older than Ellie, but was stubborn as a rock. She was slender and would have been easy to hoist, but she fended off Frank's entreaties to carry her, insisting on walking under her own power, even though step she took drove the barbs of the bolt-head deeper. She left a trail of bloody drips on the natural cobbles of the path. Frank resorted to helping her along the path, supporting her injured side with a firm hand so at least she wouldn't fall and worsen her injury.

As they approached the cliff, a spotter called out and the farm's ragtag band of defenders spilled down the zigzag gash of the cliff face like a human avalanche. They snatched Eaamon up like a feather, and she floated up the ramp in a bevy of arms. Though it miffed Frank to see her let the others carry her without any fuss, he was no stranger to disrespect.

"Gentle! She's not a sack of meat," he said as her bearers stumbled on a ledge. He pointed out the nature of her wound and mimed that they should not twist her torso or tug at her arm.

Once they got her into a nice sunny spot and fetched a bag of sterile saline to keep the wound clear, he could extract the rest of the bolt and stitch her up. The bleeding looked like it wanted to stop, once all the jostling was over.

Frank felt an unpleasant thumping in his chest as he climbed up the cliff behind the rest of the group, cradling the girl's AK in his arm. He had come to ignore his off-kilter heart, letting it find its own way back to equilibrium. Worrying about it only seemed to do it more harm. If he dropped dead, then so be it. No great loss.

He hoped he had set the safety latch properly on the AK. He fiddled with the lever as he topped the cliff. He looked up to find Liz staring at him, arms crossed, weight transferred to her one good leg.

"Where's Misty?"

"Don't know," said Frank.

"Did you go out there to fetch her?"

"Liz. There are bigger things afoot. There are whole armies out there after each other. I saw a fucking Toyota crash into a wagon."

"Toyota?" Liz looked puzzled. "You mean an actual car?"

"Yes."

Liz narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Miles did say he brought one here. I thought he was delusional."

The people carrying the girl had already passed the terraces with her.

"Yo! Wait for me!" He turned to Liz. "I got to catch up with them. Don't want them to yank that bolt out or she might gush."

"Ellie's up there to help out," said Liz. "So, no idea if Misty's okay?"

"I caught a glimpse," said Frank. "Thought I saw them across a field. If so, they're fine."

"Not very re-assuring, but I'll take it," said Liz. She turned and walked beside him past the sweet peas. Her presence kindled a pleasant warmth under his skin.

"Your sweet peas look amazing by the way," said Frank. "Where did you get—?"

"Stray seeds from my purse," said Liz. "They grow all over the valleys now. Don't know if you noticed."

"I did," said Frank. 'Like kudzu,' he was about to say, but restrained himself. "How's Tom doing?"

"Hanging in," she said. "He's awful sleepy. No worse anyway."

"Sudden changes are what we don't want to see," said Frank. "You let me know if anything happens with his breathing or such."

"You plan to check in on him, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course. As soon as I'm done patching up that girl."

They stood facing each other in a silence that grew ever more awkward. But Frank was reluctant to excuse himself.

"I'd always admired your doctoring," said Liz, finally.

"Really?" Frank frowned. "You used to hate it when I talked shop."

Hearing Liz refer to their old days together made his stomach tumble. Having his prior existence acknowledged was a major breakthrough. Any crumb would do in a famine, he supposed.

"I was a stupid little girl back then. All squeamish. A couple years in Gi will run the squeamish out of anyone, let me tell you. All of the innards and brains I've seen splashed on the road. Gi's a rough place... particularly since the Venep'o came, but even before, the clans would war with other. This unified Nalki business is a new thing, relatively."

"Must have been hard... for you," said Frank.

Her head turned like a turret and she aimed a gaze loaded with cold fire straight at him—not hostile, just intense. "You. Have. No. Idea," she said.

"Wish I could have been there for you Liz," said Frank. "Believe me, if there was any way I could have known about this place... how to get here... I would have dropped everything and come."

Liz's had hardened up again. Frank's eyes pried, but she wouldn't look at him directly.

"I prayed... that you would," said Liz, her voice gone small.

"I'm... sorry," said Frank. "I let you down."

"No fault of yours," said Liz. "I mean, how were you to know? I'm sure... you went looking for me... didn't you?"

"For weeks on end," said Frank. "Interrupted only when the constables took me in for questioning... for your murder. Your family almost brought charges against me."

"My brother, the lawyer," said Liz, smirking. "How is he?"

"No idea," said Frank. "He won't talk to me."

She touched his arm. "His loss. I can tell that you're still a good man, Frank. And a good doctor."

A mist formed in Frank's eyes. Liz's words prompted a memory of something she used to say to him—a pet compliment. Frank tried taking a deep breath, and a half-sob snuck out.

"What?" said Liz. "What's wrong?"

"It just... reminded me of something you used to say to me when you were proud of some little kindness or charity I did."

Liz's eye's flashed with understanding. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown," she said.

Frank lost control. His tears spilled, unhindered.

Liz looked on with wonder.

***

The villagers had Eaamon laid out on Liz's porch when Frank arrived. Ellie was already attending to her.

Liz went out back to check on Tom.

"I'll be there in a minute," said Frank, his stomach clenching as she left his side.

"When you can," said Liz, tossing a worried glance.

"Don't pick at that," said Frank, as Ellie pulled at the gauze surrounded the severed bolt shaft.

"How else am I going to get it out?" said Ellie.

"You're not to touch it," said Frank. "You're going to let me do it." Frank held his fingers up limply and looked about. "First, I need to wash my hands."

Ellie got up and fetched an earthenware pitcher insulated with coils of damp rope, she put it down and handed him a small bouquet of pink flowers.

"What's with the damned flowers?" said Frank. "I need soap."

"This is our soap," said Ellie. "Crush the buds. You will see."

Frank did so, and with a little water dribbled over his hands, he worked up a thin, green lather.

"Cool," said Frank.

Ellie crossed the porch again and retrieved a clanking bundle from a rack. She deposited it in front of Frank. The saturated cloth was warm to the touch.

Frank un-wrapped it to find a scalpel handle, several disposable blades that looked like they had been re-sharpened and an assortment of forceps, needles and suture thread.

"I assume this has been—"

"Boiled?" said Ellie. "Of course."

He peeled back the girl's shirt, taking care not to catch it on the bolt shaft. Frank worked quickly, taking advantage of a shaft of sun falling over the corner of the porch. He made a few tentative probes, every movement drawing gasps from the un-anaesthetized girl. She was more stolid than he would have been. She was probably accustomed to pain, but he'd be working with sharp instruments. She could be harmed if she flinched.

"I wish we had something to anesthetize her with."

"Anesta? What?"

"Anesthetize. To make numb so it doesn't hurt."

"Just a second," said Ellie.

She went inside the house and came back with a small ceramic jar with a wax seal.

"What's that?"

"Some stuff we picked up in Raacevo. I think it's a narcotic."

Frank pried the lid open and took a whiff. He didn't have to get close. The potent aroma sought him out; earthy and putrid and familiar as rotten potatoes.

"Any chance this stuff's called bolovo?"

"Yes. I think that's right. How did you know?"

Frank administered a few drops to the girl, not the full swig that had knocked him unconscious for half a day. In minutes, the girl's eyes developed a distant, swoony look, though she remained responsive. Frank remembered how swiftly it had acted on him.

"Mind if I hang onto this?"

"Go ahead," said Ellie, shrugging.

Liz came back around. "You done?" she said.

"Just getting started," said Frank. "Wanna help?"

"Um... sure," said Liz.

"How's Tom?"

"Same," said Liz. "You're still going to check on him, aren't you?"

"Of course," said Frank. "This will just take a minute."

Frank pulled a flap of skin back from the girl's wound. Her eyes responded but she seemed detached from the pain.

"What can I do?" said Liz.

"Take these forceps," said Frank. "Hold the wound open."

Frank used the scalpel to free up the barbs, one at a time.

"Nasty," said Frank. "They don't want these things to come out, do they?"

"She's lucky," said Liz. "They're known to dunk these bolts in venom."

When Frank had cut the bolt free, he lifted it out gently and tossed it to the ground. It had come close to nicking an artery, but had stayed free enough that Frank had minimal suturing to do before he could close up the wound. The girl's bleeding had picked up, obscuring his field of work.

"Where'd Ellie go?" Frank looked over his shoulder.

"Why? What do you need?"

"I left some bags of saline somewhere," said Frank. "I need this irrigated so I can see where I'm suturing when I can close it up."

"I know where they are," said Liz.

"Here, I'll take that from you," said Frank, putting his hand over Liz's to take the forceps from her. She paused and stared, startled, before pulling her hand away. Frank's breathing deepened. Ever since his arrival, his senses were acutely attuned to the most Liz's most trivial actions.

Liz got up, went into the house and came back with an IV pack and Ellie in tow. "Ellie'll take over for you so you can sew," she said.

Liz thumbed open the valve and rinsed out the wound. Frank worked quickly and delicately, putting in two layers of sutures under as Liz dribbled a steady flow of saline over the wound to keep everything clear.

"Wow, you're good at stitching," said Liz. "When all this blows over, we'll put you to good use mending our socks. Beats patching young folks, don't you think?"

"You really think this thing will blow over?" said Frank.

"Always has before," said Liz. "I bet it's the dang Nalkies riling things up. I say let them have their colonies. Maybe they'll leave the rest of us alone."

"How long has all this fighting crap been happening?" said Frank, putting the finishing touches on the girl's wound with a tight chain of sutures.

"Ever since I came here," said Liz. "Though in the old days it was all clans and bandits. One thing the Venep'o did was get all of Gi... well most of it, anyhow... all pointing in the same direction – against the invaders. But the Sinkor do get their share of converts, and then there are those dang Polus."

"You stayed safe... through all that?" asked Frank.

Liz's eyes flared. "Safe? What do you care? I made it through, did I not?"

"Just wondering... how your life was."

"My life was hell," said Liz. "I've been raped more than once, beaten. Some years I starved. Had fevers and rashes that nearly did me in. One made me blind for a month. And my babies. It's hell keeping a baby alive in this place. Took me years to get it worked out to have a decent life. Leo did better somehow. He had help early on. Didn't hurt that that man was so good with languages, and that the Giep'o took to his proselytizing."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't give a fuck and I don't mind saying so," said Liz. "That man was no Christian."

"How long were you with him?"

"Frank! I don't need this interrogation. What's the point? Here is where I am and there you are in your place and that's that."

"We're both here. In the same place. Right now," said Frank.

Liz exhaled, exasperated. "Now can we check on Tom?"

***

He followed Liz out back, passing an array of rinsed and recycled bandages dangling like prayer flags from a tree, stained with dark blotches like Rorschach shapes or Shrouds of Turin. They ducked behind the heavy curtain that kept out the flies and breezes.

Frank put his hand on Tom's forehead. He felt warm, but his fever seemed to have broken. He had good color. His pulse remained quick, but strong. At the very least he seemed to have gotten no worse since morning, and maybe had made some subtle improvement.

"I think he's doing... good," said Frank. "We'll need to keep up the antibiotics. Wish I could set up an IV drip, but I don't have the gear."

"He going to be okay?" said Liz, hovering at Frank's elbow, Tom's hand clasped in both of hers.

"Next twenty-four hours will be key," said Frank.

"Is he going to be okay?" said Liz, more forcefully.

"The indications are positive," said Frank.

"You're telling me, you don't know?"

"I'm just giving it to you straight, Liz. Without blood tests, I can't be sure what's going on inside him." His foot jostled a crock that functioned as a bed pan. "Kidneys are working," said Frank, noting a bit of water vapor skimming along the surface. "That's a good sign."

"He's my only Tom," said Liz. "He needs to get better."

"And I think he will," said Frank. "I promise, I'll do everything I can."

Liz looked directly into Frank's eyes as they spoke. Her gaze sent tingles through him. He marveled how far they had come from that initial reunion when Liz had run off to hide without speaking to him. He imagined that this was how Diane Fossey must have felt when she made her breakthroughs communicating with mountain gorillas. But it struck him as an absurd way to be thinking about his own wife.

Frank looked at Tom carefully, studying the ruddiness of his cheeks, the curl of his beard. Ripples moved through Frank's insides as a question wavered on his tongue. It slipped.

"How old is Tom, Liz?"

Her eyelids flickered. "Older than Ellie."

"How old is that?"

"Late teens."

"Now, Liz, I'm serious. Is there any chance—?"

Liz popped up off her chair. "There's something going in out there."

"Liz... wait!"

Ellie ducked her head in the door. "Mom, you'd better come?"

"What's going on?" said Liz.

"I'm not sure," said Ellie. Liz stepped outside after Ellie. Frank followed them around to the front of the porch.

A man was coming up the lane escorted by villagers, who led him straight to Liz. Liz engaged him in rapid fire Giep'o. After a brief squabble, they seemed to reach some sort of consensus.

"What did he say?" said Frank.

"Don't put your things away just yet," said Liz. "Get ready to get busy. They've got some casualties for you. Seems the Nalkies want to occupy my valley."

"You're gonna let them?"

"Do I have a choice?" said Liz. "Me and what army's going to hold them back?"

***

Liz stayed with Frank and assisted him as well or better as any trauma nurse he had worked with in an ER. She even taught him a few tricks about splinting and suturing with locally available materials. Other healers joined them as the porch filled up with the wounded, many with injuries far graver than Eaamon's.

Several of the fighters joined them in assisting the injured. Frank gathered, from their collections of bandages and salves that they were some sort of medics or healers. Their methods both baffled and impressed him. They seemed to have a knack for extricating barbs from flesh without needing to cut.

Frank got up to stretch and looked down the line of casualties spilling out onto the muddy lane.

"We should be doing triage," he said. "Can you explain that to these healers?"

"Triage?"

"Save who's savable and needs saving," said Frank.

"I suspect that's been done already," said Liz. "No one's come to us with a sprained ankle or a skinned knee. And it looks to me like they left the worst cases behind."

"You have a point," said Frank, diving back in to help a soldier with compound fractures that bent his lower leg in two places.

With the added help, they moved through the line swiftly, depleting the contents of several of the aid packs they had retrieved from the cache. Bandage wrappings, emptied neosporin packets and IV bags littered the porch.

They had been at it for hours, but Frank almost regretted seeing the flow of casualties slow. It meant that his one-on-one time with Liz. For the first time since he had arrived, her casual, friendly banter made him feel like they worked for the same team. It resurrected a glimmer of the way they used to be together. The bits of the old Liz that slipped through the cracks of her tough façade fascinated him and made him hungry to see more.

Frank's hands quivered with the same vital force he had felt when she first approached him down the lane. He remembered this feeling from their courtship, when Liz's voice over the phone could make his every cell hum. This is how it felt to be alive, so different from the automaton-like existence he had maintained for years after her loss.

"So you lived in DC?" said Liz. "Downtown?"

"For a while," said Frank. "In a condo near the zoo," said Frank, wrapping a strip of homespun around a young man's leg to protect the glancing saber wound he had just stitched. "Later, I moved to Bethesda to be closer to work."

"I can't believe you never remarried," said Liz. "What were you waiting for?"

Frank reached for a roll of tape he had recovered from the cache, but his hand met the floor of the porch. A little boy had snatched it up and was making for the lane. "Not again," said Frank. Another healer grabbed the boy and brought him back, still clutching the roll of tape. Liz pried it from his fingers, ripped off a piece for the boy to play with and handed it back to Frank.

Frank looked around for another casualty to work on and was surprised and relieved to have hit a lull.

"Wasting your life away waiting... for nothing," said Liz.

"It wasn't... for nothing. I found you, didn't I?"

"You had no way of knowing what happened to me. What if I was dead?"

"You aren't," said Frank. "I don't know why... but I never believed you were."

"Then you were a fool," said Liz. "Doesn't matter that you turned out to be right. You're still a fool." Her eyes locked onto his. "You had no inkling about this place. None. Didn't you?"

"I didn't," said Frank. "How could I even have imagined it?" Frank leaned back against a post."But if I did... I would have found some way to get here... years ago."

"Then you would have wasted your life here, instead," she said. "Coming here... it's a one way trip. You do realize that, don't you?"

Frank sat up. "But it's not," he said. "There're ways to go back."

"Bullshit," said Liz.

"It's true! I've been back. Tezhay... he knows the ways. There are stones—"

"Wait. You came here, went back... and... came back... again?"

"Yeah," said Frank.

Liz's eyes scanned his face, the way she used to when she suspected him of lying.

"If that's true..." she said. "Then, you're an even bigger fool than I thought. Twenty years... has it been? All that time I haven't met a single... Urep'o... who managed to find their way back. How is it you manage to go back and forth like you've got a subway pass?"

"They don't want us to go back, believe me," said Frank. "But I got caught up... with Tezhay... in a bit of a tangle. We were prisoners... in a Venep'o camp. We had to use a stone to escape... and then... I was in Arizona... but I didn't want to go home yet... I wanted to look for you."

"Stone?" she said. Her eyes shed pity on him. "Your face. I can still see the young man you were... probably easier than you can see what I used to be."

"Not true," said Frank. "I see you and you're still Liz."

Liz kinked one corner of her mouth. "Point is... I can see the oldness starting to creep into your face. I see that, and it makes me sad, Frank. You're a good man. You could have made some woman very happy. We only have one life. And you wasted yours. I don't get why you did that."

"There's only you, Liz," he said. "I'm a one woman man."

Her eyes wandered restlessly before falling on her calloused hands. She looked up at him. "A fucking song bird is what you are, Frank. Mated for life. What a waste." She got up and strolled to the end of the porch.

"Oh, my Lord, look at them all coming!"

A flood of soldiers had appeared on the terraces and came up the lane. Frank came up beside her.

"Wonder why they're all coming up here?" said Frank.

"They'd better be bringing their own food," said Liz. "No way we can feed these many mouths. What are all these Sesep'o doing here? Look at them trample our fields!"

She hobbled around the porch rail. Frank offered his arm to help her down the steps. She shouted in Giep'o at the crowd of fighters collecting in front of the lower outbuildings.

"I see Tezhay," said Frank. "Misty and Miles are with him."

"Oh, thank God she's safe," said Liz. She stopped mid-stride. "Bimji?" Her jaw trembled.

"What? What did you say?" said Frank, still clinging to her arm.

"Bimji. Oh my God! It's Bimji!"

She pulled away from Frank and ran, momentarily forgetting her bum hip. Frank hurried after her. She made it to the barns before the pain caught up with her. She nearly crumpled but Frank was there to catch her.

A frail looking man with a patchy beard stepped away from the group standing with Tezhay, his eyes wide in their sunken sockets. Liz limped straight up to him and melted into his arms.

"They said you were dead," said Liz.

Frank watched her clutch Bimji's jacket, kneading his arms, rubbing his hair, his cheek. Tears dribbled down her face.

"Oh Jeez!" He winced and stared until he could stand no more. He backed away, found the corner of the barn, slipped and stumbled his way to the back entrance. His eyes fogged with moisture. He staggered over to the ladder and climbed up into the loft, retreating into the dimmest corner, collapsing in the soiled hay.

Frank reached into a pocket and pulled out the jar of bolovo. He gazed out through the hole left by a missing board at a rocky pinnacle poking into sky like a taunting finger. He opened the jar and looked down at the putrid slime within, tempted to swig the entire contents. Instead, he dipped his finger and swiped it against the inside of his cheek; enough, he hoped, to dull his senses. Within moments, Frank's heart began to thud deep and slow. He left the vale and its dramas behind.
Chapter 45: Evasion

Ara ripped free of Seor's arms and grabbed hold of a severed branch. Seor kicked it away before Ara could bludgeon her.

"Simmer down! It's me."

Ara stopped struggling. "Seor?" she said, her voice rising in amazement.

"Hush!" Seor whispered. "What are you doing here? I hope you're not here to meet Baas."

"No," said Ara. "I would never... I had no idea he was here."

"Then why did you cross?"

"To... get away."

There would be time to let her explain later. Seor's priority was getting them out of the open and under cover. Seor took Ara's hand and pulled her back towards the strip of trees overlooking the athletic fields. She felt her strength giving way and had to lean on Ara for support until she caught her breath.

"You're hurting," said Ara.

"I'm fine."

"You're here with... Baas?"

"Not voluntarily," said Seor. "He kidnapped me. Tied me up. Not as securely as he should have. I pretended to be a little weaker than I was, to keep him off his guard. He also didn't know about the little blade I kept in my cuff, the one I took from the healers."

A roar of frustration resounded in the woods.

Seor sucked air through her teeth. "He sees that I'm gone. We'd best go hunker down low somewhere. He'll be out hunting us tonight."

"Hunting you, perhaps. He doesn't know I'm here," said Ara. "I followed him, unseen."

"Excellent," said Seor. "That gives us an advantage."

"Beneath these trees," said Ara, pulling back a branch for Seor to pass. "The undergrowth is thick. The Urep'o call them 'mountain laurels.' We'd be out of sight even in daylight."

***

Seor and Ara kept their conversation sparse to avoid detection. For hours, Baas tromped through forest and field with an obsessive determination, before he went silent. Seor could not exclude the possibility that he did so to bait them into thinking that he was asleep or gone.

Through whispers Seor learned that Ren had passed, and that news was enough to render her silent until her tears drained her dry. She tried not to sniffle, wiping her nose on the scratchy leaves.

"Vul?" she said, softly.

"He's fine," whispered Ara. "Pari and Canu as well. Canu, despite himself."

"I can only imagine," said Seor. "That boy leads a charmed existence. How many times he should have died, while Ren, the most cautious among us, perishes."

Tears flowed anew.

"I'm proud of you," said Seor. "And grateful."

"For what?" said Ara.

"For taking care—" Something crashed through the brush. It leapt to high and moved too swiftly to be Baas. Most likely a deer. "For taking care of my friends."

***

Morning light came, revealing the presence of blueberry bushes interspersed among the laurels. While Seor slept, Ara harvested pockets full of the tiny berries, popping only a few in her mouth to abet her hunger pangs, saving the rest to share.

Ara sat pitying Seor's appearance, how gaunt she looked from her weight loss, how much she seemed to have aged over the course of the few weeks since she had last seen her.

When Seor awoke, they breakfasted on berries and beetle grubs cracked out of a rotten log, took turns watching for Baas while the other peed. Their only source of water was the dew they licked from leaves and sucked from sheathes of grass.

"We've heard nothing," said Seor. "Seen nothing. Can we move?"

"I suggest we stay put until we sight him," said Ara. "I know his tactics. He prides himself on his mindless patience. He bragged that he sat for days once for the chance to pounce on a deserter."

"Days?"

"Days," said Ara.

"But what of the convergence?" said Seor. "Might he move on without us?"

"He might," said Ara. "Did he tell you when the next one arrives?"

"Tonight," said Seor. "But he said it's to be a small one."

The sun hung halfway to noon when they spotted a dark shape moving across the meadow into the forest. Not a bear as Ara initially though, this was Baas. Another soccer game was underway in the athletic fields below. Larger children this time. Teens. The aromas of food wafted up the hillside.

"I'll be right back," said Ara. "You stay put."

"Careful," said Seor.

Ara slinked down the hill, keeping under cover of the tall weeds as much as possible. She wished she had some money as they were selling hotdogs from a stand. Instead, she gathered several half bags of popcorn that children had abandoned and made her way back up the hill.

Seor appreciated the snack, devouring the sack Ara had given her and the remainder of Ara's.

"Did you get enough?" said Seor. "Are you sure?"

"I had plenty," said Ara, her eyes lingering on Seor's jutting cheekbones, sharp enough to split a melon.

"We thought you were dead," said Ara.

"You were right," said Seor. "The Urep'o healers are good. I wish now that you had left Ren behind."

"I'm not sure... they could have saved her," said Ara. "Her wounds were dire."

Seor lifted her shirt. "As bad as these?"

Her ribs and abdomen were punctured and sliced. The skin was already mending with scar tissue, although her stitches bled where they had cut into the skin.

"That looks bad," said Ara. "But I'm afraid, Ren's wounds were worse."

***

Baas emerged from the forest near nightfall, walking right past their copse, passing down the slope through the soccer crowd, headed back towards town. Ara and Seor took advantage of his absence to shift to a more strategic hiding place in the center of the meadow, within sight of the spot where the xenolith opening to Gi lay buried beneath the loam.

It left little trace in the meadow of its presence: a swirl of grass that could pass for a deer bed, stray clods of mud from passing boots that stank of the marsh camps, and an otherworldly flower that had no business growing in Vermont.

"When the portal opens, you can return to Gi," said Ara. "I imagine Baas will be more interested in the other relay, the one opening to Sesei."

"Would he still go cross, without me?" said Seor. "Without a prisoner to escort?"

Ara shrugged. "Why not? Someone has to tell Cadre Command what happened. Who else lives to bear the news?"

"They still don't know what we did?"

"I don't see how," said Ara.

Seor shook her head. "Gi," she said, with disgust. "I thought I was done with that place."

"There are other portals," said Ara. "I don't recommend passing the way Baas goes."

"Obviously not," said Seor. "But what do I tell them at the assembly camp? I don't think I can pass for a new recruit."

"Say you became lost in Ur," said Ara. "It happens all the time. Or you can pretend you're a messenger."

"If I am to be a messenger, I need a message."

Ara tilted her head and gazed out over the playing fields, towards the river and town. "Tell Ingar he's been awarded some commendation. He'd believe it."

"And what is your alibi?" said Seor.

"I don't need one," said Ara. "I will stay in Ur."

"But why?"

"I have burned my bridges," said Ara.

"What do you mean?" said Seor. "What happened? What was so bad it would drive you to exile yourself?"

"A stupid idea," said Ara.

"Not a spat... with Canu, perhaps?"

"Spat? What does Canu have to do with this?"

"I'm just grasping... to understand."

"I stole a militia," said Ara. "Deceived their captain, used my cadre status to abscond with them and destroy the Mercomar over Maora."

"Why?"

"The idea was to attack the Mercomar and initiate the counterattack. But we failed... miserably. Didn't send the proper signal. Sent no signal, actually. So it's no surprise the First Cadre never responded and the militias remained encamped. I had hoped to rouse them. I knew how desperate they were to be out of that swamp. But they didn't budge. They're still there, waiting."

"So bold," said Seor. "I would never have had the heart to attempt such a thing."

"It was stupid."

"It was not. Desperate, maybe. Necessary. But not stupid."

"So you see," said Ara. "I can never show my face again in Gi... or Sesei."

"Nonsense," said Seor.

"Men and women died because of my whim," said Ara. "When they didn't need to. I wasted them."

"We are warriors," said Seor. "They... were warriors. Warriors fight. Warriors die. You were just trying to help your country."

"Was I?" said Ara. "Or did I do it for me? For my own selfish pride."

"Stowing that Army in the marshes was a crime," said Seor. "Why keep them in Gi if they can't be allowed to complete their mission? Deterrence? They deter nothing. Their absence from Ubabaor only weakens Ubabaor. They were sent to fight the Venep'o in a place where the Venep'o are weak. That was the plan before it got diverted by traitors. You were simply trying to restore the original intent of their deployment."

"My attempt was poorly coordinated, a pathetic gamble. We never should have attacked. I tried to abort. But in the confusion—"

"But you destroyed the Mercomar?"

"Canu," said Ara. "He destroyed it, practically on his own."

"Why am I not surprised?" said Seor. "He is... okay?"

"Last I saw him," said Ara. "I wasn't able to send the help I promised. Hopefully, they're well hid and know enough not to take on the Alar's forces."

"How large a militia did you steal?"

"One augmented company," said Ara. "From Diomet. Green, but stout under fire. A contingent of Nalkies joined us, as well."

"Really? Nalkies too?"

"Mounted. They saved our butts."

"Ara, you have nothing to be ashamed of. The more you tell me, the more impressed I am by your audacity."

"Did you not hear? I accomplished nothing! The expeditionary army's still stuck in the mud. Your friends... the militia... the Nalkies, all will be crushed by the Alar."

"Vul is with them?" said Seor.

"And Pari," said Ara.

"They're good scouts, both," said Seor. "A good scout sees what's coming, weighs the odds and retreats from unwinnable encounters."

"We can only hope," said Ara.

"Come with me," said Seor. "We can make it happen."

"I told you," said Ara. "I'm not going back.

***

The rumpling of paper alerted them to Baas' return from town. They lay in silence in a nest of grass they had plucked to cushion the pebbly soil beneath the laurels. Baas appeared from the trees carried a bulging white bag. The faint odor of fried meat wafted across the field, carrying to the women's hiding place, causing Ara's stomach to knot. Baas prowled the meadow in moonlight incrementally brighter than the night before.

Baas shuffled along slowly across the meadow, staring at the ground as he wolfed down the contents of the bag.

"He's looking for the stone," said Seor.

"The portal to Gi?" said Ara. "We were wrong, then. But... he's looking in entirely the wrong place. The fool's made the passage... how many times?"

Baas paused and looked up. He turned towards the copse. Seor touched her fingers to Ara's lips to silence her. They lay still until Baas reached into the bag and pulled out another item, discarding its paper wrapping in the grass.

"He doesn't have to remember," said Seor, with words formed more from breath than vibration. "He'll see the signs."

They kept their heads down, tracking Baas as best they could, their view obscured by shrubs and wafting grass. He began walking transects across the meadow, passing from one side to the next, turning perpendicular for a few paces, doubling back the other way.

"He'll find us for certain, if he keeps doing that," said Ara, panicked.

"The convergence," said Seor, lifting her head slightly. "Is it coming? Can you tell?"

Ara craned her head up and glanced in the general vicinity of the buried xenolith. "Not yet," she said. She lay back flat. "You said you had a weapon?"

"Not much. A tiny blade. The size of a toenail. What about you?"

"Ingar had me disarmed," said Ara. "I'm sure that Baas is armed to the teeth."

"Count on it," said Seor, forcing slow breaths though her heart demanded panic. Tall grass scraped against his coveralls as he swept by their hiding place. He stopped, only paces away.

"I know you're out here, Seoresophon!" he shouted. "And I know you're hungry. I'll make you a deal. I'll be lenient, if you show yourself. My fault. I should have secured you better. Surrender and you'll get fed. You won't be punished."

He continued on to the edge of the meadow, turned and came back the other way, this time following a line that would take him directly over the patch of trampled grass that harbored the xenoliths and straight towards her and Ara.

The weeds sizzled, dead leaves and twigs crunched underfoot as he approached. Dark limbs swung into view, pausing between paces, stepping just out of reach. If Seor possessed a real weapon, she would have been tempted to take him on, despite her infirmity.

She kept still, modulating her breath, daring not to twitch a finger or a toe. Ara, for her part, lay like a corpse. She wondered if Ara would fight Baas if it came to that, or if she still felt allegiances to her cadre. Might she let Baas take her to spare herself? It was all too confusing. She trusted Ara, but one never truly knew another's character until it was tested.

She began to tremble from the strain of keeping still. Ara took her hand and clasped it tightly, rubbed it gently to reassure her.

"Come with me!" Baas roared into the meadow. "I'll take you to Ubabaor. Did you hear me? Tonight you can be in Ubabaor! I'll make sure they allow you visitations! Your family. You can see your family!"

"Bring me my Dima and we might have something, you bastard!" Seor muttered to herself in a voice so soft, only a grasshopper could hear.

Minutes passed. The moon crept higher. Footsteps resumed, crashing through the brush at the fringe of the copse.

"What's he doing now?" said Seor. "I can't see him."

"He's going away," said Ara, sitting up. "He's entered the forest."

"To the Ubabaor relay!" said Seor.

***

The feeble glow rising from the xenolith told Seor that this would be a risky passage. The colors were muted, the field's interior opaque, revealing little of the world with which it connected. She and Ara remained crouched in their hiding place, ready to pounce.

Trees shuddered, branches snapped in the forest. Something heavy-footed, either Baas or a bear was running back to the meadow.

"Come on!" said Ara, urging on the convergence.

"Stronger," said Seor.

"Seor!" Baas shouted from the edge of the wood. "Show yourself! It doesn't matter which portal we take. There are cadre at both ends. You stay in Ur, you will die. Your body is still weak. In Ubabaor, you will be in custody, but they will mend you. They will feed you there." He turned towards the forest. "Seoresophon!" he roared.

"He doesn't know if you're here or there," Ara whispered. "That's good. Means he's caught in between."

The convergence seeped out of the meadow like a brook swelling up behind a beaver dam, its progress tempered by waves that eroded the edges and forced it to ebb.

"Get ready to go," said Seor. "I don't know how much stronger it will get."

"I told you. I'm not going," said Ara.

"You must come with me," said Seor. "If you stay, Baas will kill you."

"Don't worry about me and Baas," said Ara. "I can handle him."

Seor pressed something thin and wrapped in foil into Ara's palm.

"My blade," she whispered. She rose and stumbled, falling over the laurel that had harbored them.

"What's that I hear?" said Baas. "A little bird?" He stormed across the meadow towards the portal.
Chapter 46: Homecoming

Lizbet sprang into Bimji's arms, knocking him back. He stumbled, bracing his foot against a stoop lest they both collapse in the mud and dust. He was still nowhere near as robust as he had been before his captivity.

The moment felt surreal, considering the undulant path he had taken to reach it: from almost certain death by torture, to a secluded recuperation, to a second brush with death by Crasac, to this homecoming.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to hold Liz, the smell of her skin, the soft pressure of her cheek. Tears spilled from her ducts, but Bimji felt too dazed to weep.

"I thought for sure you were dead," said Liz, her face dripping with tears. "No one leaves the Alar's prison alive. How did you—?"

"Nalkies," said Bimji. "Two died to rescue me. Such a waste. I was ready to die. I was already halfway gone."

"Don't say that," said Liz.

"But it's true."

"Your rescuers didn't know that they would lose their lives."

"I owe these people," said Bimji. "Everything since that day is like afterlife to me. Like heaven."

As he stroked her honey hair, an Urep'o man lurched away through a crowd of refugees and soldiers, flashing to Bimji a masque of anguish and surrender that roiled Bimji's heart. The man stumbled down the lane and staggered into the oldest, most rickety barn.

"That man," said Bimji. "Was that your Frank?"

"Yes," said Liz, the word escaping like a gasp.

"Where does he go? Why he looks sad?"

Liz slumped in Bimji's grasp.

"Frank... he doesn't understand," said Liz. "How things are... here."

Misty came up the lane with another young Urep'o man. She ran when she saw Bimji. Bimji freed up an arm to wrap around and hug her.

"We are four again?" said Bimji. "Or is it five... with that one?"

"Miles?" said Liz, smirking. "I don't think so. That boy's head hasn't fully arrived in Gi. He still thinks he can hop a bus back to Connecticut."

"What he says is true, Liz!" said Misty. "I saw his car. His mother called him on his phone."

"His... mother?" said Liz, scrunching up her eyes.

Liz slid her hand down Bimji's torso. "Oh my Lord! You're nothing but a bag of bones. We've got to get some food into you."

"These soldiers looted a Venep'o wagon," said Misty. "We'll have enough bread and porridge to last a while."

"Then come on Misty, let's feed this man before the wind carries him away."

***

Bimji propped himself against a stack of cushions in the depths of the main house. He stretched out his stiff legs on the sleeping mats, in the room in which he had spent much of his adult life, weathering storms with his family, collapsing after a hard day of chores, making love, healing.

He had seen the size of the army that the Venep'o were amassing below the cliffs. He knew that his time here would be brief and bittersweet.

Liz seemed stuck in a state of deep denial over what was happening in the valley. The farm was as he had left it, cultivation well underway, chores conducted as if the seasons would come uninterrupted just like before. It would not be easy convincing her to go.

She and Misty brought in a plate of griddle cakes and gravy and they feasted, chastising him good-naturedly over his entanglement with Tarikel and the Nalkies. But with so much unsaid and unsettled, the cakes didn't sit well in Bimji's stomach.

When Misty went back to the cook shack, Ellie slipped through the curtains and knelt on the edge of the mattress where Bimji lay next to Lizbet, the way she did every morning since she had taken her first wobbly steps. She was woman-sized now, yet her eyes betrayed the child inside. Her grin stretched so wide that Bimji thought her chin might drop off. He couldn't bear to spoil the moment with talk of abandoning the farm.

"I told mom you'd be back," said Ellie. "I was positive. But no, she has to be such a pessimist."

"Was not easy," said Bimji. "Even when I got away from Raacevo. They pursued us. Sent raids into the villages that harbored me."

"Never mind all that," said Lizbet. "You're here now and safe with us. That's all that matters."

Someone called in from the porch for Liz to come out. Liz sighed, started to rise, but settled back down, clinging all the while to Bimji's hand. "Ellie. You go see what they want."

Ellie bounded up and glided through the curtains. Bimji turned to Liz and whispered.

"The young man," said Bimji. "Miles. Has he taken up with Misty?"

"I doubt it," said Liz. "I mean, they have things in common. Like his damned phone, that almost got them killed. But there's nothing romantic going on, I don't think."

"Why is not Frank here with us? Is he not family?"

Liz tensed. Her hand slipped away, but Bimji snatched it back.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I don't know why I feel this way... but I do. I made my peace a long time ago. And it was a hard thing. To have someone come, and rip open every one of those scars. It's hard for me."

"But it is not just for you. He is human, too. How do you think he feels?"

"I can barely look after myself, Bimji. I can't worry about him."

Ellie poked her head through the curtains.

"These men out here insist on speaking with you," said Ellie.

"You tell them to wait," said Liz.

Hands appeared through the curtain, gripping Ellie's shoulder for support and then maneuvering her out of the way. Tom slipped into the room all slumped and wobbly. His eyes lit up at the sight of Bimji.

"Tom!" Liz reared up. "What are you doing up on your feet?"

"Gee mom, I would have flown, but I must have snapped a wing."

"Smartass!"

"Ellie told me he was back. I just had to see."

"I would have brought him over to see you," said Liz, scolding. "We were letting you rest."

Tom stumbled over to the mat and settled down gingerly next to Bimji, clasping him in a long embrace.

"What happened to you?" said Bimji. "You look in worse shape than me."

"I'm in better shape than the Crasacs who did this to me," said Tom. "I can assure you that."

Liz pulled herself up off the mat with the help of a support post. "I'd better go see what these gentlemen want."

Ellie held the curtain open for her.

***

Tom reclined next to Bimji, nibbling on a leftover griddle cake. Bimji rose and washed his face and hands in a basin by the one small window high on the wall. He spotted his favorite long coat hanging from a rack and slipped it on, taking pleasure from the smooth fabric and the mere fact that he had access to his favorite possessions again.

He couldn't get the image of Frank's desperate face out of his mind. Liz had spoken so warmly of him over the years. Bimji had come to think of him as a spouse-brother. And in fact, that's exactly what he would be, if he were Giep'o. Bimji thought of the poor man festering away in their worst barn while Bimji enjoyed the love and camaraderie of his family.

Bimji smoothed his beard, and went over to the bedside. Tom's eyes flicked open as Bimji approached.

"Do you plan on eating the rest of these?" said Bimji.

"No. Just the one," said Tom. "I'm not all that hungry."

Bimji swept up the basket and slid out through the curtain, past the outer room where Liz was making palaver with the militia lieutenant and the two Nalki leaders. It was a discussion that he should probably be involved with, but he had other business to attend to. He maneuvered through the wounded men and women sprawled all over the porch and hopped down onto the lane, heading for the old barn where they kept the dead—Nalki and militia, together.

He climbed partway up the ladder and peered into the loft. He thought at first it might be vacant. But he heard a snuffling in the dimness. Frank was collapsed on some dirty straw in the darkest corner of the barn. His eyes were open, but he was not there.

***

Miles hauled a sack of Venep'o grain into the cook shack and collapsed onto the bench that he had called his bed the last few nights. "There's more down there to be hauled, you know," said Misty, shouldering another sack right behind him.

"I need a break," said Miles. "I think you've got plenty of porters." Indeed, a long line of captured Venep'o supplies bobbed and weaved up the lane behind them.

"We'll be eating fine tonight," said Misty. "Something other than beets and greens for a change."

"Yeah, beets and greens and... barley," said Miles, watching the grain trickle from a small hole in the sack onto the floor of the cook shack. He plugged it with his finger. Misty pulled his hand aside and dragged a cauldron underneath to catch the leaking grain.

The fires had already been stoked and several fighters were hauling water in skins from the spring and filling every available cauldron.

"I should go see Liz," said Misty, fidgeting sheepishly. "I heard she wasn't too pleased that I took off."

"You can blame me," said Miles.

"You don't know what you're asking," said Misty. "Trust me, you do not want to be on her shit list."

"Sorry it didn't work out," said Miles. "I mean, with your phone call and all."

"No problem," said Misty. "I appreciate the thought. God bless, we didn't come to harm. At least you got to talk to your mom."

"Yeah," said Miles. "She's probably still waiting for me to call her back. Listen, Mist, we'll try again sometime. When things quiet down. I'll take you to that place. Okay?"

Misty gave him a slight nod and a wan smile and peeled away towards the main house. Miles stood around for a bit, aimless and in the way. Tired of being jostled by the folks trying to prepare dinner for several hundred fighters and refugees, he took off down the lane, seeking some semblance of peace and quiet.

The goat house was packed, not with snoring refugees this time, but with the leaders of the various fighting groups that had come up to the vale. They had commandeered it for their command post. They sat in a circle, engaging in some sort of squabble. They spoke in that indecipherable local language, so Miles had no clue what was going on. He ducked back out.

He walked past the sagging barn where they kept the dead—the only peaceful place left on the farm these days. Someone sobbed quietly inside. Voices reverberated from the loft, where Frank and Tezhay made their bed. Miles did not want to disturb anyone. He stayed outside.

He found a crude bench set back from the lane made from a stone slab propped on smaller stones. He ejected the empty cartridge from his rifle, reloading the magazine with bullets he had stuffed into his pockets before he and Misty went on their excursion. Some were unusable, crusted with verdigris and salt. But he found enough good ones to fill his empty clip, and enough remained to fill at least another. As he clipped the magazine onto his rifle a group of children spotted him and rushed over, squealing, their dirty hands grasping at every button and lever.

Miles brushed them back gently and rose, holding the rifle high out of their reach. "No!" he said. "This is dangerous. No touchie."

He checked to make sure they hadn't messed with the safety lever. The children took advantage of the lull in his attention and swooped back in.

"Get out of here!" said Miles. "Scram!" He pointed his finger and swung it around. The children screamed and ran off.

Miles patted himself down, taking inventory of his possessions. These refugee kids had a way of making off his with things. The oblong lump in his shirt pocket was his cell phone. He checked to make sure it was off. Seeing that he had no way of recharging it, he had to conserve every second of battery life. Same thing with his radio, which he found in his satchel, its earphones all knotted and tangled.

He took it out to untangle the cord, and in the process nudged the on button. He idly depressed scan, not expecting to find anything. It cycled silently though vacant frequencies from the 500s to 900s and then:

"Slow going on the Pike near 495—"

The traffic report tingled his hair follicles. He fumbled to lock the frequency but it had already cycled on to the next. Miles hit the manual tune button and brought it back down through the 1000's till it locked on AM 1030. An unfamiliar station. Not one he usually picked up in Greymore. He went down to 880, a New York station with a high wattage transmitter that usually came on strong at home. He found only white noise. Back up to 1030.

"Meteorologist Todd Gutner brings you the WBZ Accuweather forecast."

BZ? The call sign was not familiar. It was a weaker signal than before. He had to tilt and turn his radio just right to get it in. And he had to tilt and turn it in a completely different direction than he had to pick up the Greymore stations.

And then the noise sifted away and the volume increased. He went back down the dial and picked up station after station, even the feeble Latino and Christian stations at the bottom end of the range. When the receiver latched onto some chiming guitars, Miles leaped to his feet, slung his rifle and barged into the barn, dodging corpses in time to the beat.

***

Frank knew he was caught in a bolovo-fueled dream, but was powerless to escape it. No amount of will could extricate him from that chair at the table at the Scarlet Macaw. The wind howled, spattering Frank's face with grit and dust. Swarms of termites and June beetles collided in the lamp glow. Bus fumes and street noise wafted over the wall and mingled with the sour leakings from a dumpster.

And of course, there came Liz, hustling up purposefully, dragging her bad leg, slapping her purse against the glass tabletop. He could see her face perfectly now. The hazel eyes, the fire cooled. Every crease defined, every little scar and blemish, down to the little blue veins in her taut forehead.

"So you wanna know," she said. "You wanna know what happened up the river?"

"No," said Frank, but it came out in a feeble grunt.

"Well, I'm tellin' ya," she said.

"No!" said Frank, louder, and he pushed away from the table and shoved the chair away. It toppled backward and shattered, every inch of it glass. He ran for the street, but behind the wall he found a beach and an ocean illuminated by a dying sun, as dim as a full moon behind cloud. Loungers stretched down the strand, each one filled with various versions of Frank, all decrepit – octogenarian, corpse, zombie, skeleton. Frank fled from a following Liz, dragging her leg like a rudder through the sand. His feet pounded sand like pistons, and yet she gained on him steadily, her frigid gaze boring into him like an ice pick.

Frank shook and shook, and something slapped against his face, splashed him with water and the beach faded, replaced by the dim interior of the loft.

Bimji crouched before him, one hand on Frank's forehead.

"You take the hurt balm I see," said Bimji.

"Bolovo," said Frank.

"Is good for sick heart. I understand," said Bimji.

"Why are you here? What is it you want?"

"I come see, you are okay."

"What's it to you?"

"You are my brother," said Bimji. "My spouse-brother."

"Did Liz send you?"

"No."

"Listen. I want to be alone right now."

"Alone is not good."

"I don't care. I want to be alone. So scram."

"We don't let you. You will hurt yourself." He grabbed the little crock of bolovo and pocketed it.

"No! Put it back! I need that. My heart."

"I keep it for you," said Bimji. "You take too much, is not good."

"Listen, buddy. You can just fuck off. I'll take as much as I want." Frank lunged for Bimji's coat pocket. Bimji evaded him with a quick step to the side.

"You hurt. I see what Lizbet does to you."

"Why's she like that? What did I do?"

"I don't know. She loved you. I know this much. I know how she speaks of you. For years I hear of you. Only good."

"Loved?"

"She is happy what you do for Tom. He no look so good to me. But they tell me he was much worse."

"Loved? What happened? What did I do?"

"You do nothing. I think is just... you are like a ghost. You make her afraid. You make her sad about her life. Maybe it takes some time. And then she will see."

"It's like... she blames me. As if I sent her here."

"Is not so simple," said Bimji. "She has hard time in early days. When I found her, her spirit was already broken. Was not easy for me to find her trust."

"But... why do you care? Why'd you come find me?"

"I tell you. You are my brother. I am glad you come. Our clan is small. You make us stronger."

"Clan?"

A melody jangled, first outside and then into the barn below— a familiar melody. Bimji looked baffled. Frank sat up and tried to shake off the lingering effects of the bolovo as an old song—the Cure's 'Friday, I'm in Love' came chiming up the ladder. Miles emerged beaming into the loft, hoisting his little silver radio above his head.

***

A weeping tower of dark, volcanic rock soared high over the shadowed and mossy stream bank. Crossbow cinched tightly to his back, Canu picked his way over the stream where it plunged through a notch in the cliff top before hurtling off the ledges. The grit-scoured stone was slick, and the rain-fed torrent did all it could to upend him. He crossed with the aid of a staff and emerged dripping on the other side.

Feril had wanted the three of them to attend a palaver with the people who owned this farm, but Canu was happy to let Vul and Pari take on that duty. Feril still seemed to harbor the misconception that they were all Cadre, or some special category of fighter, though it should have been obvious that they were nothing of the sort. At least Pari employed her skills honestly, tending to the latest round of casualties.

Rabelmani was gone, probably dead according to his handlers, though Canu had his doubts. The old heliograph master was crafty enough to exploit the chaos of battle to engineer and escape. The mirror that Canu had taken from him now dangled on his breast from a thong threaded through its sighting hole. It came in handy for grooming his beard.

Canu had come to the cliffs to get away from the crowded farm, welcoming the extra silence and space. Already he had helped the villagers repulse several minor attacks. The villagers treated each retreat like a victory, but Canu could see that the Crasacs were simply probing the defenses, drawing fire to smoke out their hiding places.

He worried that the ramp into the vale was not the only place an attack might focus. It was the obvious target, but the cliffs stretched out of sight in both directions. Surely the Crasacs would be seeking some alternative means of approach. He had already spotted several patrolling the scree slopes below the ledges. Someone had to find out what the enemy was doing, didn't they? Canu didn't have to think twice about it.

As he approached the brink of the waterfall, the mossy bank gave way to a jumble of stone fallen and shattered from the precipice above. Canu clambered over the rubble to the narrow ledge that skirted the base of the promontory rising above him, a needle of stone taller than ten trees stacked on end.

He wondered what Ara would think if she saw him now. The way that girl constantly hovered in his mind, always present, always watching, like a mosquito. How could a mere woman could hold such power over him? The chemistry (or was it alchemy?) that Canu had sensed between them in Ur, did she ever think of him the same way? Had it been real or only wishful thinking on his part?

No matter. Mirages were no less powerful than oases in guiding a thirsty man across a desert. Canu was a victim of an age-old scourge that possibly only death could cure.

Axes rang out in the forest. Trees groaned as they were felled. He looked out over the treetops but couldn't see a thing. They seemed to be working their way in from the river road.

He craned his neck up toward the promontory. Wind blasted around the thick spire, its summit obscured by overhangs. If he could climb it, he would be able to scout the entire valley.

The stone was damp and slick and nearly vertical, but deep cracks regularly cleft the face, between volcanic columns that rose like bundles of those parasitic vines that strangle trees. He wedged his hand in deep into a crack, made a fist and pulled himself up.

He made steady progress upward, though he wondered how he was going to get back down without a rope. Each pull up the face gave him that much more height over the treetops, providing glimpses of the clearings that the Crasacs were opening. The sounds of a hundred axe blows converged and diverged from polyrhythm to cacophony. He reached a small perch formed when the top half of one of the columns had peeled away from the face. Blood seeped from scrapes on his knuckles.

The ranks of cliffs below formed a nearly intact barrier almost as far as he could see, broken only by occasional chutes and breakdowns that might facilitate passage.

But the Crasacs were taking a more blunt approach to the barrier. They were felling trees to widen a path and build a ramp of split timbers. Three giant wagons bearing siege towers were queued up behind the work party, creaking forward behind every thwack of axe. Behind the wagons, in the meadows lining the river, a large squadron of Crasacs maneuvered upstream, hundreds of Crasacs marching behind them.

The sight brought Canu a sinking premonition about his future. The force mustered by the Venep'o far exceeded the hodgepodge of fighters condensed in the vale. The Alar sought not just defeat but extermination.

Panic gripped him. He slipped on a loose stone and nearly slipped on his perch. He felt a strong urge to flee, to continue climbing the tower like a monkey evading jackals up a tree.

His eyes sought the dimple in the hills where he and Ara had parted ways. What would she think of him now if she were watching? How impressed would she be by him deserting his friends? He jammed a scraped and bloody fist into a fissure and started climbing down.
Chapter 47: Deliberations

Canu shoved his way through knot of fighters clogging the lane, trying to reach Vul, whom he could see up the lane, leaning against the entry to a shed. Hundreds of Nalkies and militia swarmed the vale, trampling fields of young beets and parsnips because there was simply nowhere else to tread.

Canu burst past through the center of a milling circle of Feril's fighters and almost right past Vul who had stopped before the open doors of a goat shed. Pari looked up, her face marred with contusions and a swollen eye, nevertheless conjuring a smile at the sight of Canu.

Feril, the Nalki leaders and their subordinates huddled over a crude map of the vale and its surrounds scratched into the clay by knife point. They looked up, expectant, as Canu pressed forward, and glanced away, disappointed.

"Where is this Bimji and the Lizbet woman?" said Igwa. "Do they not care what happens to their farm?"

Canu scanned the attendees. Feril was here with his sergeant. The Sesep'o Traveler, Tezhay, sat with an Urep'o weapon in his lap. To either side of him were Teo of the so-called Lost Cadre, and a Nalki leader named Idala.

"I don't see why we need to go," said Tezhay. "The cliffs make this vale a natural fortress."

"Fortress? Bah!" said Igwa. "It's nothing but a trap. The Crasacs can besiege us till we starve. We need to get out of this pit as soon as possible."

"The weapons we have can break any siege," said Tezhay, smugly.

"Yet your ammunition is limited," said Teo. "Is that correct?"

"There's more in the cache," said Tezhay. "We can send a party to fetch the rest."

"They're useless once the Venep'o take the heights," said Igwa. "They'll rain down fire bolts until there's no place left to hide and finish us off one by one."

Canu glanced at Feril, who seemed oddly passive though he looked attentive.

"I wouldn't say... useless," said Tezhay. He hoisted a defeated smile. "But I defer to you fighters. I am not a military strategist. I just thought... well, I don't know what I was thinking."

"I've just come from high above the cliffs," said Canu. "I saw them, in the forest, cutting—"

"Militia man," said Igwa to Feril, ignoring Canu. "What do you think we should do?"

Feril's gaze wandered high into the rafters. "It is in our interest to make them think we're staying here, so they focus their attention on the vale, but in the meantime we evacuate. Then, instead of us being trapped, we trap them when they try to attack. The bluffs surrounding this vale will make excellent strong points."

Teo's eyes went wide with approval. "What do you think, Tezhay?"

"I think it is good," said Tezhay. "It lets us concentrate our firepower, and it is sustainable."

"And we have room to roam in the meadows," said Igwa. "I like this plan."

"As do I," said Idala, idly chewing on a piece of straw.

Canu leaned into Vul and whispered. "Notice they don't ask us what we think."

"Why would they?" said Vul. "We're just soldiers. And besides, what's to think? What Feril suggests is brilliant."

Canu settled back on his haunches, feeling some tightness in his throat. His face flushed as he regarded Feril, who was looking so plainly pleased with himself.

"I'm going outside," he whispered to Vul, and retreated back into the lane. A cook shack blazed with extra cauldrons of porridge and stew concocted from the supplies they had seized. At least they would have a hot meal for a change.

The fighters in the lane parted for a woman who barreled down from the main house swinging one bad leg, led by one of Feril's underlings. Her path took her straight towards Canu, who stood in her way. A glare as piercing as the tip of a lance sent him hopping off the lane into a muddy ditch.

***

Tezhay left the meeting and went back to the barn, which once again harbored the dead. He sat outside on the stoop and began disassembling his gun. He pulled a wire brush from his pocket and a small tin of oil, both taken from the cache. He could hear Frank speaking to someone up in the loft. It sounded like Bimji.

He ran the brush through the barrel and swabbed it with a piece of oiled cloth jammed onto the end of a stick. He picked and scraped at the grime gumming its firing mechanism with the point and flat of his dagger.

Tezhay admired the simple design, well within the capabilities of the blacksmiths of Sesei if not Gi. The only parts that worried him were the springs. The alloys of his homeland did not have nearly the liveliness and resilience of the three used in this weapon. But springs were portable and could be brought over portals by the gross in a sack. Tezhay made a mental note. Someday, if the war continued, this information might be enough to turn tides.

Ellie came down the lane with a pair of children in tow, each swinging a pair of empty baskets, going to fetch water, going to pick greens and roots from the garden, despite the immaturity of the plants that grew there. But present needs outweighed the value of a harvest that might never come.

Ellie paused and gazed over the terraces into the distant hills. Disappointment creased her face.

"What's wrong?" Tezhay asked, in Giep'o, a language that matched his thinking much less awkwardly than English.

"The Mercomar," she said. "It never flashes anymore."

"Oh?" said Tezhay rising. The promontory blocked their view of the heliograph over Maora. Was she speaking of another? "Which one did you mean?"

"The only one we can see from here," said Ellie. "In the hills over Verden."

Tezhay turned and squinted at the barely visible blemish along the curve where hills met the sky.

"The Mercomar there used to blink all day any time it was sunny. It took messages from Maora and relayed them to the Alar. But now it stays mostly dark. I miss its blinking."

"Interesting," said Tezhay. "But you shouldn't be missing it. Dark is good. It means the Alar is fighting blind."

Had this Mercomar been sacked as well, or did its silence have more to do with the absence of the relay over Maora? One would think that the Alar would still want to transmit missives to his outposts. Just because they couldn't transmit didn't mean they couldn't receive. They had eyes in Maora, didn't they?

Events that should have happened a year or more ago were now cascading in to place. He had stumbled into Gi during opportune and precarious times. As much as he wanted out of Gi, now was not the time to go.

The terraces below held several ranks of militia soldiers: one line set back slightly from the cliff edge behind a pathetic barrier of deadfalls and branches, and a second dug into the flower patch behind the wall holding up the first terrace. Lizbet had been furious when she saw the soldiers rip through her precious sweet peas, but the damage had been done. Not even a murderous, mad woman could dissuade them from completing their entrenchments.

Defenders filled the pocket valley. Contingents stood atop the steep ridge on the west and even atop the striated pinnacle to the east. Combined with the refugees still huddled on every clear patch of ground, there was hardly room for anyone to move without getting in someone's way.

Teo rounded the corner of the next building up and waved Tezhay over. Tezhay took his weapon and an oiled rag and joined her.

"We're holding a discussion with Bimji's spouse," said Teo. "Please, join us. You know these Urep'o. Maybe you know a way to get her to listen."

"Me?" said Tezhay. "Why don't you find one of her spouses to help you? She has three of them now. Maybe four."

"We can't seem to find Bimji," said Teo. "But maybe it is better that you are not her husband. Gives you more credibility, more sway."

Tezhay shrugged and followed her back to the reeking goat shelter where the palaver was still going strong. One of Captain Feril's comrades had taken Tezhay's spot on the floor, while Lizbet sat on a large overturned basket, towering over the others like a queen. Some of the thatch had been pulled away for more ventilation and light. Tezhay grabbed a handful, tossed it on the bare dirt and joined the discussion.

"We can't promise to protect you if you stay," said Feril.

"That's fine," said Liz. "I never asked you all to come here and trample my beets. I'd rather that we fended for ourselves anyhow."

"In that case, I can promise you'll be slaughtered," said Igwa.

Liz threw the Nalki a glare.

"How does Bimji feel about this?" said Idala.

"Who the hell knows?" said Liz. "Ask him yourself."

Tom ambled in, looking pale, and as if he might topple any moment, he squeezed onto the basket next to Liz.

"I couldn't find him," said Teo. "Bimji? He went to see Frank," said Tom.

"Frank?" said Liz. "Why would he—?"

"Lizbet, please..." said Teo. "This is Tezhayaploplec. He is a Traveler. He knows the Venep'o well. I value his opinion."

"I know Mr. Tezhay," said Liz,

"What brother Igwa says is true," said Tezhay. "They won't spare you. If you were stronger, they might enslave you, but... in your case."

"You're saying I'm dead meat, because of my hip?" said Liz.

Tezhay shrugged. "More or less."

"They've always left us alone," said Liz. "If you all leave, maybe they'll pass us by."

"That's not how this Alar works," said Teo. "You gave us safe harbor. Not only that, your people killed some Crasacs, I hear. Those are grounds for your destruction."

"I can't leave," said Liz. "This is my farm. I worked hard to make it what it is. I'm not going to just... abandon it."

"Don't be foolish," said Tezhay. "Twice, these fighters have fought Crasacs and came out ahead. They have captured the Alar's attention. If he has his way, he will exterminate every last one of us, and that includes you and your family."

"This Alar a friend of yours?" said Liz. "You make it sound like you all actually know the man."

"I know his kind well," said Tezhay. "Men like him—Cra Supremacists—come from the same line of indoctrination. If you know that branch of Sinkor, you'll know that mercy and tolerance have no place. They will wipe us from these hills like aphids off a leaf."

Liz smirked. "Let them try. This place is a natural fortress. Bimji and I didn't settle in these heights for the fresh air or the view."

"We are not talking about some little patrol," said Teo. "There is an army assembling out there. A siege army."

"By all means go, run," said Liz. "I'm not stopping you. I'm not asking for any of your protection, either."

"The problem is," said Idala. "If you stay, the villagers will stay."

"You don't see me chaining them to any posts. They're free to leave whenever they want."

"They stay, they die," said Tezhay. "All of your refugees will be exterminated along with you."

"You're comfortable, being responsible for their slaughter?" said Igwa.

"We don't know that will happen," said Liz.

"I do," said Tezhay. "I saw it happen in Bohangor ... to a Sinkor family. They let some retreating militias sleep in their fields, gave them food. The Venep'o swooped in, rounded up the clan, decapitated them all. Don't expect anything different here, except perhaps the method of your slaughter."

"Lizbet, we don't have much time. This man, Canuchariol, has seen them at work in the forest," said Teo. "They are bringing siege towers up against the cliffs on both sides. If they bring troops into the high meadows before us, they'll trap us here."

"I can't leave," said Liz. "We've got crops in the ground. There's people here, injured, can barely walk. Tom for instance."

"I'm walking just fine!" said Tom.

Liz looked flustered, her eyes flitting around the room, searching for someone who would support her.

"Bimji!" she called.

"I told you, mom," said Tom. "He's with Frank."

Liz sighed deeply. "This is my home," she said. "Five children, I gave birth to here."

"It's not just you we're talking about," said Teo. "Think about the villagers. You will doom them if you stay."

Liz looked down at the dirt. Her face sagged. "How am I supposed to run away on this worthless hip?"

"You have donkeys, don't you?" said Idala.

Liz glared. "I'm not some sack of beets. I ain't riding on the back of no donkey."

"How much time do we have?" said Tezhay, turning to Canu, who seemed surprised to be consulted.

"Time? Well, their siege wagons should reach the cliffs by tomorrow, easy, at the rate they were cutting."

Teo gazed out the doorway into the hills. "Idala and I have now fifty-four able bodies," said Teo. "What about you all? How many can you muster?"

"Eighty or so in fighting condition," said Feril. "Ninety if we include some of the walking wounded."

"Forty-two," said Igwa. "Some have left, but may return with reinforcements."

"How many villagers willing to fight?" said Teo.

"About forty total," said Liz. "Maybe half are old enough or young enough to use a weapon."

"Barely over two hundred," said Teo. "Less than I had hoped. The Venep'o may field a thousand or more against us. Urep'o weapons or not, we can slow them down, but we can't stop them. I'm not sure the rest of our Nalkies will mobilize in time to provide any relief. I was hoping to see the rest of your militias, Captain Feril."

"I don't understand why they haven't yet come," said Feril. "It has been days since Comrade Ara went off to fetch them."

Liz slipped off the basket and hobbled slowly towards the door.

"Where are you going?" said Teo.

"To pack," said Liz. "And shoo away whatever refugees I can shoo."
Chapter 48: Bottleneck

The convergence burgeoned and ebbed, struggling to sustain its form, like a cloud over a desert. Its feeble light barely broached the darkness.

"Go to it!" said Ara, pulling Seor back to her feet by the back of her hospital gown. Light as a bird, she had lost so much weight. Ara rushed Seor forward until the edge of the convergence field repelled her like a puff of wind.

"I can't go through yet," said Seor. "It's not ready."

Baas was halfway across the meadow, coming at them at a dead sprint, the moonlight sparkling off the reflective strips sewn into his coveralls.

"Get down!" said Ara, reaching up and hauling Seor to the ground. She pried a stone out of the matted grass.

"What are you doing?"

"He doesn't know I'm here with you," said Ara. "Tell him you give up. Tell him you'll go with him. Let him hear your voice, but stay low and keep still."

"But why?"

"Just do it!"

"I give up!" Seor shouted with all the voice she could muster. "I give up, Baas. I will come with you to Sesei." Seor lay flat on the ground at the brink of the wavering field. Ara rose up, raised one arm, kept one on her back, hunched over, feigning infirmity.

"You're at the wrong, bloody portal then, aren't you?" said Baas, slowing to a walk, puffing to catch his breath. "Get your scrawny ass over here. Quick. We're using the one in the forest."

Ara hobbled towards his dark bulk, standing in the tall grass, silhouetted in moon glow. He held one arm bent upward. Too dark to tell for certain, his posture suggested he held a handgun.

Ara's rock in the one hand and the tiny blade cradled the other seemed pathetic and pointless now. By the time she got close enough to inflict any damage, he would see that she was not Seor and his bullets would rip holes into her.

"So what made you change your mind, little bird?" said Baas. "Do you have family in Ubabaor? Little tykes you want to see? You cooperate and I'll make sure they—"

Ara stooped over and coughed.

"You'd better not be coughing up blood," said Baas. "I need you intact for the inquisitors."

She turned away from him, shading her face from the moonlight. If he came any closer, he would see she was not Seor.

"Get your scrawny ass moving now, little bird!" He stomped after her and then paused, startled. "Those... clothes," he said. "Where did you get them?"

The convergence flared bright like a candle flame catching a draft. "Seor! Now! It's opening. Go!"

"Seor?" said Baas. "Who the... Ara?"

Ara heaved the stone at Baas and wheeled back towards the convergence, Baas grunted as the stone struck his midsection.

Seor had already crawled into the glowing space, but was caught between forces of attraction and repulsion. The gun went off and a bullet ripped through the weeds. Ara dove and slid. She threw her arm around Seor's shoulder and dragged her deeper into the field. The convergence field toyed with them, slipping forward, hanging up like a faulty ratchet, backsliding—two notches forward, one notch back. Baas fired again, straight into the portal. The convergence swallowed the bullet, whipped it around and spat it back out over Baas' head, forcing him to duck.

He charged after them. Ara strained at the field, inching deeper. The convergence bathed Baas' features in a garish orange glow as he came after them. The field surged, knocking him off his feet. He fell forward, bowling into them, his mass shoving them deeper into the portal. Sultry marsh air mixed with the cool tang of a September evening in Vermont. They squirted past the bottleneck.

Ara landed on top of Seor in the well-trampled mud of the convergence ground, drawing a shriek of agony. She rolled away from the portal, coming to rest at the foot of a sentry. She tried to get Seor to stand but she remained crumpled on the ground in pain. Ara dragged her out of the field by the hem of her hospital gown.

"Comrade... Ara?" said an astonished sentry leaning on his pike.

"Get away from that portal!" said Ara. "There's a man coming after us. He has a weapon. He's dangerous."

Baas' knee penetrated the interface. Then an arm poked through, fingers grasping. His face met resistance, stretching but unable to penetrate the invisible membrane.

The portal, already narrowing, had twisted him up like a pastry. One of the sentries planted the butt end of his pike against the small of Baas' back and pushed. Another man ran up to join him. Baas swung his gun and the portal puckered wide, but the first sentry quickly batted it away with his pike. The portal flared and snatched it back to Ur.

Baas garbled unintelligible expletives, the portal's distortion scrambling his words. Like dock hands shoving a heavy boat away from a landing, the soldiers slowly reversed his body's momentum with their staffs. His shape faded and disappeared. The convergence flapped closed and its turbulence calmed.

"That wasn't a passable portal, ladies," said the second soldier. "You really should have checked a tabulator."

"Thank you, comrade, for the advice," said Ara. "Next time we plan to be attacked by a madman, we'll be sure to consult the convergence schedule first."

"Mirec. Do you realize who this is? This is Comrade Ara of the cadre."

"Arahelios?"

"Yes, that's me," said Ara, sighing morosely. She had never intended to return so soon. Resigned to her fate, she stood up, helping Seor carefully to her feet, supporting most of her weight.

"You're not even supposed to be here, comrade," said the second sentry. "The Commander's decree says that you're confined to—"

"Never mind all that," came a robust male voice out of the darkness.

"Excuse me, sir?" said the second sentry.

A militia officer made his presence visible in the guttering light of a tallow torch. "I'll escort her where she needs to go. Them, I should say."

He was a young man, with piercing eyes, his face exuding a level of calm that made him appear almost bored.

"She needs help," said Ara. "She's hurt."

"Let's bring her to my compound," said the officer. "We have a wonderful healer. One of the best in camp."

"Who are you?" said Ara.

"Captain Daraken, Cracao militia."

"You're aware of the decree against me?" said Ara.

"I don't give a damn about Ingar's decrees," said Daraken. "You're welcome in my camp, anytime."

They passed into the blackness separating the convergence zone from the bivouacs, and into a slum of shredded tents and tree bark shacks. A modest fire of peat block burned in a circle of such dwellings. Daraken, supporting one of Seor's arms with Ara under the other, led them into one of the larger tents, its awning pieced together from various shreds of cloth and hide.

Daraken's healer, an older, one-eared man sat with a candle, pulling splinters from the calf of a trouser-less soldier. Another officer bearing the mark of Captain was watching the proceedings with a mug of tea.

"I told you not to shimmy down that log," said the officer. "Don't go blaming it on me." The officer stood and gave up his stool to Seor as Ara and Daraken brought her into the tent.

"Ah well, what do we have here? Another casualty of the swamp air?"

"I'd guess not," said Daraken. "But I have a feeling this one's going to be interesting."

The healer turned his attention from the young woman with the splinters. "Urep'o?"

"Nothing of the sort," said Ara. "We've just come from Ur but—"

"I meant her stitches," said the healer. "Clearly, they're Urep'o."

"She survived one of their fire bolts," said Ara. "They fixed her up, but she's had a setback. We... Seor, in particular... could really use some food and drink."

The other officer's eyes widened and a vague smile curled on his stubbled visage. "Seor, did you say?"

"Have my mug," said the healer, handing over his tea.

"Thank you," Seor croaked, taking it trembling to her lips.

"By any chance, might you be Seoresophon... of Suul?" said the other officer.

Seor peered over the rim of the mug, looking startled and confused.

"How... how do you know my given name?"

"I'm Esayos, of Suul. You don't know me, but I fought beside your husband. I attended your commendation ceremony, for the Battle of Croega."
Chapter 49: Bon Voyage

Miles swayed up the ladder, the music bursting from his radio's tinny speaker reverberating into the rafters of the loft. Frank and the new guy – the skinny one they called Bimji – seemed more puzzled than impressed.

Bimji looked on blankly, hands on his hips. Frank sat hunched in the corner, knees drawn up, chin resting on folded arms. His face looked blotchy, his eyes red. Drips of blood spattered his clothes.

Miles paused in the hatch, clinging to the ladder with one hand.

"Frank? You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Just tired. Just got done patching an army."

"How do you make this music?" said Bimji.

"I think it's an iPod," said Frank.

"That's no iPod, mister," said Miles. "This is my pocket radio."

Frank perked up. "That's... a live broadcast?"

"Yup." He flipped to another station to demonstrate, finding the daily business news.

"WBZ?" said Frank. "That's in Boston."

"I don't understand," said Bimji. "What does this mean?"

"I'm... not sure," said Frank.

Crackles interrupted the news report and it faded into static.

"The signal comes and goes," said Miles. "Hang on, I'll get it back," said Miles, climbing onto the loft. He paced from one end to the other, rotating the radio this way and that.

A sizzle burst from the speakers, resolving into a pop rock jingle: "Ninety-nine... you always come back for more! WBZ news time 10:12. The Ninety-nine Restaurant brings you traffic on the threes."

Frank unfolded himself from the corner and stood. "How are you getting that signal? Where is it coming from?"

A whistle sounded below. "Doctor Frank!" called Tezhay. "Do you sleep? You must to wake up. We are leaving this place."

Frank snatched the radio from Miles' grip.

"Hey! Easy with that."

Frank spun on his toes, radio extended, twisting, rotating it. He found a position that made the signal come in loud and clear, and froze.

"Hah, will you look at that?" said Frank. There's only a signal when I tilt it up this way... towards the mountains."

"Don't waste the batteries!" said Miles. "I don't have any spares."

Tezhay's head poked into the loft, eyebrows arched in puzzlement. "Who is making this music?"

"Something you want to tell us, Tezhay?" said Frank. "What's up there in those hills?"

Tezhay ascended the ladder and stepped into the loft. Frank stood posed like a statue, holding the radio like Lady Liberty's torch.

"There's another stone close nearby, isn't there?" said Frank.

"Stone? What's this about a stone," said Miles.

***

Tezhay stared at the little silver radio. He owned such a device himself in Belize, using it in the evenings to listen to some scratchy punta or reggae when he wasn't playing brukdown with the neighbors. Marizelle was always hijacking it to listen to preachers and political gossip.

A man squawked from Doctor Frank's palm about President Obama, his voice piped in directly from Ur. That such a transmission was possible was news to Tezhay, and likely would be a revelation as well to the Philosophers who studied xenoliths.

That an ignorant exile could approximate the delicate art of locating and monitoring the activity of xenoliths simply by pressing a button on a little box struck Tezhay as ironic. Perhaps it was time for the Philosophers to spend more time investigating Urep'o technologies before consigning them to the rubbish heap, as they had done with the image receivers and computing devices he had carried back to Sesei.

Fracture planes propagated through Tezhay's convictions like cracks through a window pane. He wanted to tell these exiles exactly why they heard this music; that it came through a portal not half a day's walk up into the mountains. But Academy Protocol bound him to keep silent.

"Is stone, yes," said Tezhay. "The mountains are full of stone. They are made of stone."

"Don't give me that bullshit," said Doctor Frank. "You know exactly where the stone is that's funneling this radio signal, don't you?"

As Doctor Frank well knew, Tezhay had strayed from Protocol, even before the incident in Arizona when Tezhay had almost let this exile return home. Years ago, Tezhay had acquired the very weapons that now evened their odds against their Venep'o attackers. Only Tezhay stood between these exiles and their homes.

Miles fumbled with his shirt pocket and flipped open his cell phone. "Hey, I got bars again! I gotta go find Misty." He hustled to the ladder and slipped on the treads, ratcheting down to the floor of the morgue.

"He is from Ur? This man who is talking from the box?" said Bimji.

"He most certainly is," said Frank. "Straight from the Hub."

Tezhay understood why the Academy kept xenoliths hidden from the Urep'o and relocated Urep'o who discovered them to places where their knowledge can do no harm. Bearing Urep'o technologies across portals was just as forbidden, so Tezhay, the gun smuggler, could make no claim to purity. When his own government found reason to breach Protocol, was it no wonder that Tezhay could not hold Protocol sacred?

These foreigners had no reason to stand and fight and die at the hands of a Venep'o horde. It was not their fight. He had no desire to stay and be slaughtered either, but the portal in the high meadows opened thousands of miles to the north of where he needed to be. A Venep'o army stood between him and the xenolith in Maora that would take him to Chiqibul and the Macal River with a relay to Ubabaor where the Academy awaited his report, and then back to Marizelle and his little girl in Belize City where was weeks late in returning.

But what of these exiles? Doctor Frank, with a heart broken two ways, his one-legged woman and the young ones, hardly fit for survival in this world. Peregrins, as the Giep'o called them, quaintly believing they used a term common in Ur. Why hold them captive? What secrets could they reveal that were not already compromised by the actions of Eghazi and the Inner Quorum?

Tezhay sighed. "I will show you," he said. "All of you. So every exile can go home." From his satchel, he pulled out the tabulator he had rescued from the cache.

***

At Bimji's urging, Frank went to see Liz, the precious radio tucked into his pocket. He found Misty and Miles on the porch, Miles beaming as Misty spoke with the buoyancy of a teeny bopper on Miles' cell phone, her eyes wide and leaky.

He found Liz with Ellie out back, arguing with the fighters who had commandeered the cook shack, some of whom were unloading a donkey Liz had just packed with foodstuffs.

"Too many damn chiefs, not enough Indians," said Liz. "Half of them are packing to evacuate and the other half are holding a party." She approached Frank cautiously, her eyes soft, her body language apologetic.

"Got something here you might find interesting," said Frank.

Liz didn't even notice the radio. "I heard Bimji came to see you?" said Liz. "What did he say to you?"

"He proposed," said Frank. "Got down on one knee and everything. No ring, though, so I turned him down."

"Oh stop! Seriously, Frank."

"He... welcomed me to the fold. Called me a 'spouse-brother' and all that. You all are gonna need a bigger bed."

Liz gazed into his face, her face flat and calm. How different this face from the one Frank remembered, and he didn't mean the crow's feet. It was the way she looked at him. How he missed that other Liz.

"You are welcome here," said Liz. "You realize that, don't you?"

"Funny. I don't feel welcome. My 'spouse-brother' seems more excited about me being here than anyone else."

"When something hurts, it hurts," said Liz. "I can't help that any more than I can help my worthless hip."

"Well, I got something here that can help you." Frank pulled out Miles' radio.

Liz squinted at it.

Frank flicked it on, and thumbed down the frequencies to AM 850 WEEI sports talk.

"Christ. It's Septembuh, guys," said a listener calling in. "I wanna talk some Pats." A pair of rowdy hosts promptly hooted him down and continued their jabbering about all things Red Sox.

Liz looked puzzled for a moment; her eyes wandered as if they had lost their moorings. But she quickly collected her composure and set her chin.

"Always hated baseball," she said. "Such a tedious sport."

Frank changed the station, back to WBZ.

"...the Nor'easter will impact south facing shores on the Cape and Islands, until Saturday afternoon when it will move out of the Gulf of Maine...."

"What a shame," said Liz. "Guess we won't be going to the beach."

"That's it? You're not curious at all how this is happening?"

"Don't waste my time, Frank."

"Where do you think this is coming from?" said Frank.

"I don't know," she said. "A tape, maybe? Isn't that a... Walkman?"

"This is live, Liz."

She took a deep breath. "So what does that mean?"

"Liz. There's a portal. A way back. Right up there in those hills. Tezhay said he'd show us. We can go home."

"That's... preposterous."

"No, it's not. I've been there and back again. There are special places that only open now and again. Tezhay said there's a convergence coming tomorrow."

"Frank... can we discuss this some other time. I'm trying to get the refugees packed up to go, and these soldiers to part with some of their grub."

"Did you hear me Liz? I said you can go home."

"Home? I am home, Frank," said Liz, anguish creeping into her voice. "This is my home and they're making me leave it."

"Listen... you don't have to... be with me. I understand things change. But if you go back, you can see your family. You can get that hip fixed. They do great work with replacements these days."

"This is just... too much," said Liz.

"But it's true. It's do-able. I've gone back and forth."

"You mean to tell me you came here, went back and came here again? But why, Frank? That's just plain foolish."

"I came back because of you. To find you."

"Don't do this," said Liz. "Don't pull this 'I should feel guilty' crap because I don't feel warm and bubbly about seeing you again."

"I didn't know that I could find you," said Frank. "I didn't know you'd react this way if I did. But I had to try."

"So I'm the bad guy here? And you're the loyal husband, till death do us part?"

"It doesn't matter, Liz. Whatever. It is what it is now. I'm just trying to help you a little bit."

"Help me? If you want to help, help me keep these people safe. Help me keep my farm. You thought that Sports Radio crap would impress me?"

"I'll help you whatever way I can. Just think about it. Your brother and sister would love to see you. They're both living in Texas, last I heard. And a good orthopedic surgeon can make that hip as good as new."

Miles rushed over. "I thought I heard my radio blasting. Dude, what'd I tell you about the batteries?"

Frank turned off the radio and slapped it into Miles' palm. He glanced back to see Liz leaning with her head braced against a donkey. He walked out to the lane in time to see a boulder fly over the cliff top and crash into a terrace wall that the soldiers had dug entrenchments behind. Soldiers and Nalkies scattered and fled from the lower terraces.

***

"Siege weapon," said Tezhay. "It is their specialty." He stood atop the smashed wall. "This stone is small and came from far. Is probably just for test. We need to leave... soon. The stones will come bigger when they fight for real, and some may bring fire."

Frank sighed. "I don't think there's any way Liz leaves this farm."

"She has no choice," said Tezhay. "If she stay, she will die."

Frank shrugged. "What can I do?"

"What you think... the others?" said Tezhay. "Will they join?"

"Well, Miles is sure itching to get back, so I'm sure he'll tag along. Misty... I don't know... I got a feeling she'll only go if Liz goes."

"And you?"

Frank bit his lip. "Don't know yet."

A donkey train snaked its up one of the paths leading up to the high meadows through one of the ravines that dented the headwall of the vale. The first of the refugees were leaving the farm. Horsemen already roamed the heights as the Nalkies provided cover for the retreating civilians.

Some of the villagers had opted to stay and fight; others, lame, elderly, with small children or simply too frightened to face the Venep'o packed what few possessions they had managed to bring, and prepared to leave.

"Where can they go that's safe?" said Frank.

"Over mountains is another valley," said Tezhay. "Not much there. Too narrow and too much rocks for farm, but... where else is there to go? You all should go soon, while you can."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I stay. Help fight," said Tezhay.

"Tezhay, that's suicide. They'll be crushed."

"Maybe not," said Tezhay. "Maybe we have some ways to slow them. Some things I take from the cache. I send my volunteers to the hills to make some preparation."

"I wish there was a way we could take all of these folks through the portal," said Frank.

"Oh yes," said Tezhay. "We take an Army to Boston. No one will notice. Yes?"

A dull thump emanated from the woods below. An object hurtled over the cliffs.

"Watch out!" said Tezhay. "Another one comes."

Frank watched it rise above the trees, tumbling, whistling through the air. It thudded into the mud below one of the few remaining patches of sweet peas, scattering dirt, leaving a crater the size of a hot tub.

"You remember my instructions?" said Tezhay.

"Yeah," said Frank. He sighed. "Let me say some goodbyes. See if Miles is ready."

***

Miles grew antsy waited for Misty and the others to collect their things. He was ready to go. He had his pack on and had finally retrieved his own jeans and button-up shirt on a clothes line strung from the porch. Tezhay said they had hours before the passage fully opened, whatever that meant. But Miles wanted to be there yesterday. He had had enough of this place.

He pulled out his radio and turned it on, alarmed to find that the signal had faded. He was afraid he had lost it until he played with the fine tuning and brought it back in, though not as strong as before. Despite his worries over what battery life remained, he couldn't resist turning it on every few minutes or so to confirm that the signal was still present.

And then he saw them, those crazed eyes that had stalked him behind the parking lot of Brownie's Rock Shop. He would know them anywhere.

The crazed one saw him and followed him around to the cook shack. Miles turned to run, but stumbled. He dropped the radio and the battery hatch popped open spilling both batteries into the dirt. He crawled after them, retrieving one from under the foot of a soldier bearing a large spear. The other got kicked into a ditch. He fished it out and wiped the mud off on his pants.

And there he was, standing over him—the crazed one. He stopped down and held out a square black object in his palm—the key to Miles' Prius. He stared at Miles, shook his palm at him. Miles reached slowly and plucked the key from his palm. The crazed one nodded at Miles, straightened up and walked away.

***

Frank found Miles looking dazed beside the cook shack where soldiers were scraping the last of the crusted porridge from a cauldron and wrapping dollops in leaves.

"What's wrong with you?" said Frank.

"Um, nothing," said Miles.

"Seen Liz?'

"No." His eyes brightened. "But there's Misty!"

Misty came around back from the spring, laden with a pair of bulging water skins. She carried them into Tom's room.

Frank and Miles followed after her. They found the entire clan there, including Bimji. Tom was lashing his possessions to a pack frame. He looked far from hale, but he was definitely on the mend. He should not have been on his feet so soon, but the fact he hadn't already keeled over from internal blood loss was perhaps a good sign. He could also have used a longer course of IV antibiotics, but now was not the time.

Liz looked beleaguered. "Look what you've done," she said, upon spying Frank loitering by the door. "Gone and started a mutiny."

"How so?"

"They all want me to go to Ur—with you."

"Really?" Frank felt his heart skip ahead of itself.

"What have you been telling them?"

"He say they can fix your hip... like new," said Bimji.

"It's true," said Frank. "Doesn't even have to be so invasive anymore. Just a small incision."

"Cutting bones is not invasive? Since when?" She grimaced. "Maybe... when it's not your bones being cut."

"But it works," said Frank. "It helps people walk again who were even worse shape than you... I mean wheelchair-bound."

"Is that the best persuasion you can muster?" said Liz. "This crowd has threatened me with physical harm if I don't take up your offer."

Frank detected the change in Liz's tone, but his spirit was too beaten down to perceive any reason for optimism.

"Tezhay says we should get going soon," said Frank. "Those of us who want to reach the convergence in time. So I came to say good bye."

"Goodbye?" said Liz. "We're going with you, fool."

"With me? To Ur?" Electricity tingled through Frank. "Who—?"

"All of us," said Liz. "Me and Bimji and Tom, we're too weak or sickly to fight. The only decent fighters left among us are Ellie and Misty, and we need them to be body guards."

"Hey, what about me?" said Miles.

"You're useless without that gun, boy," said Liz. "I'd bet my girls are quicker with a blade, straighter with an arrow."

Frank was thrilled about having Liz accompany them. It was beyond what he dared pray for.

Something whooshed through the air and crunched against wood. Shouts and screams sounded down the lane.

"Shit! That sounded like one of my sheds," said Liz, bolting upright and stumbling, almost falling before she reached the door. Frank steadied her with a hand on her elbow and a palm against her back.

The clan rushed out to the front of the house. A boulder from a Venep'o catapult had toppled the rickety barn where Tezhay and Frank had made their beds.

"Tezhay!" said Frank, rushing down the lane. He pushed his way to a crowd of soldiers picking through the shattered timbers to free someone trapped beneath. Frank spotted Tezhay looking on beside a group of soldiers with bedrolls and satchels on their backs.

"Jesus!" said Frank. "I thought you were in there."

"You ready for go?" said Tezhay.

"Yeah, I guess," said Frank.

"Just you and Miles?"

"No," said Frank. "Everybody."

"What? How many?"

"Seven," said Liz, coming alongside Frank. "And this thing better be for real. I'm not dragging my lame ass up that mountain for some make-believe pixie dust."

"Is real," said Tezhay. "Seven is... not too much, I suppose for such a big convergence. You should go now. No wait. Because fire is coming next." He gazed down into the forest, where the axes had been ringing incessantly day and night. "I will show you the way."

***

The farm's few donkeys and mules were already loaded up with supplies, so everyone in the traveling party had to carry their own belongings, pared down to the few items they deemed utterly essential. Ellie carried three long bows and a legless armless doll with hair of milkweed silk. Tom carried the drone mandolin and a sack full of olive pits and apple seeds. Liz had only her staff and a bag stuffed with homespun baby clothes; Bimji, just the clothes on his back. Miles and Misty led the way, queued behind a forward contingent of Feril's militia fighters. The cliffs were manned only by villagers now, who had already repulsed several probing attacks. Tezhay had instructed them to retreat once the main body had left the vale.

Liz confronted Tezhay as he passed her on the lane. "You're telling me... this convergence thing has been in my own backyard... for how long?"

"This one? Generations," said Tezhay. "Two. Maybe three."

"Gawd!" said Liz, her face flushing.

"What's it like... this door?" said Ellie.

"It's a bit scary looking," said Frank. "But nothing to be afraid of. I've been through one... twice... no, three times. It's a bit disorienting. No worse than a roller coaster."

"A what?" said Ellie.

"Is like cart going downhill very fast with no mules," said Tezhay.

"Lovely," said Liz. "Just what my poor little hip needs."

"You have less than one day," said Tezhay. "But still plenty time. Good hip or bad hip. Even if you have to rest. Even if you must to carry her."

"You'll... show us the way?" said Frank.

"I will not be joining you," said Tezhay. Frank had never seen him look so grim. "I can tell you how to find, but I ask that you not share this knowledge. You must never bring anyone back this way. Can you promise this?"

"Sure," said Frank, and there was nodding and grunting all around.

"You know, in the high meadow, the cottage near the cache, yes?" said Tezhay. "From there you must climb higher to the passes to the west of the big mountain. You will take the taller one, farthest to west. Near the top is cliff with a small lake at the bottom. You will find this xenolith among the stones that fall from this cliff, above lake shore."

"Whoo-hoo! Let's go people," said Miles. "Less than a day, as the man says." He picked up his pace and pulled ahead of the others.

"This is just too surreal," said Liz. "I thought I had left that other world behind... permanently. It was... gone... wiped from all possibility, forever."

"It's still there, Liz," said Frank. "And still attainable."

"But how can I leave this place?" she said. "Everything... everyone I know and love is right here."

"Some of them are going with you," said Frank. "And besides, there are people and places you loved just as much in that world. You've just been away so long, you've just forgotten."

"But who's going to mind my farm?" said Liz.

Frank shook his head. "I never imagined I'd hear you say such a thing. I used to kid you mercilessly about being such a city girl."

"What farm?" said Tezhay. "When Venep'o finish. There will be no farm."

"Oh, don't say that!" said Liz.

"It is true," said Tezhay. "It is what they do."

"Well, they can't spoil the land. This land... the vale will still be here."

"And a colonist from Venen will be here, growing wheat," said Tezhay.

Frank could tell from the look on Liz's face that Tezhay was one negative remark away from a beating. She restrained herself, pausing at the end of the graded lane to gaze back down past the buildings and terraces of Lizbet's farm.

Another catapult-flung boulder crashed and bounced across a field, tearing massive divots in the young beets. There was a commotion down by the cliffs. Arrows flew from the bows of villagers supplemented by short bursts of rifle fire from Tezhay's volunteers.

"So when do you suppose the big attack will come?" said Liz.

"What you mean, when?" said Tezhay. "It already comes. And they will have scouts in the hills, patrols. You must take care. Be ready to fight."

"Marvelous," said Liz, grimacing as she swung her bad leg over the curb stone at the end of the lane. "Just marvelous."
Chapter 50: Mutiny

Daraken's healer sequestered Ara and Seor in a curtained-off compartment in back of his infirmary, hauling in a pair of well-cushioned sleeping mats and bedding. Captain Esayos brought in a set of used but clean clothes to replace Seor's torn and filthy hospital gown.

Ara kept on what she already wore, but her eyes gravitated towards a small collection of weapons stashed in a corner.

Esayos noticed her staring. "Need a blade? Go ahead, take one," he said. "It's just standard Provincial issue gear. Nothing special. We passed his good bow and sword on to his comrades."

"Thank you. I feel naked without a good blade... or anything," said Ara, sheepishly. She chose a modest dagger and a sheath.

"Seor?"

"No thank you," said Seor.

"Fever claimed the man who owned these," said Esayos. "But we've been lucky, Nearly all of us have had it, but most have recovered. Other units have been hit much harder."

Daraken arranged for his galley cook to bring a tray bearing some of the few delicacies their encampment could boast: some basil chutney hoarded from Sesei, pickled wild horseradish, spiced goose liver in oil along with some hard biscuits to eat them with, not the type of fare they hauled out for just any passersby.

Ara was taken aback by the excess of their hospitality, not at all the treatment she would have expected for a pair of outlaws. Suspicious, she remained watchful for signs of deception, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Could all of this attention be due solely to Seor's celebrity? Ara had no idea that she had been such a war hero. In all of their time together, Seor had never spoken of her deeds in the war. Esayos had to describe what had happened at the Battle of Croega, how Seor had salvaged a fighting retreat from a complete encirclement by Venep'o shock troops intent on extermination. What's more, she was not even an officer at the time. She automatically took charge when both of her Captains were killed.

Seor took no part in the conversation. All she wanted to do was sleep. Ara and Captain Esayos snuffed the candles and retreated to the fire pit at the center of the compound, where Captain Daraken came to join them.

Ara shrouded her face from the fighters who came meandering by, keeping her voice low, fearing that some soldier might recognize her and report her presence to Commander Ingar.

"You don't have to worry," said Esayos. "Here, you are among friends."

"I'd feel safer if we went inside," said Ara.

"What Esayos is trying to tell you...." said Daraken. "You are in good hands here. Our company has the worst record for reprimands in the camp. We're the bad children of the Second Expeditionary. We know what it's like to be on the wrong side of Ingar... and Baren."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" said Ara. "Sounds to me like you have targets on your backs."

"Ingar doesn't dare enforce his edicts," said Daraken. "There are too many other militias who feel the way we do."

"You'll have to pardon my nerves," said Ara. "I never intended to return to Gi. But I was forced to when Baas—"

"Baas?" said Esayos. "Our Baas?"

"Yes. He attacked us when—"

"That man assaulting you was Comrade Baas?" said Daraken. "Baasenborqil?"

"You were at the convergence," said Ara. "Did you not see him?"

"I saw an elbow and a knee," said Daraken. "I had no idea they belonged to Baas. Was... Baren with him?"

"Baren is dead," said Ara. "And so are the others. Baas and I are all that's left of the escort party."

Daraken's gaze went soft. "A shame," he said. "We had our differences, but he was a decent soul."

"So you see what this means," said Ara. "I can't cross back to Ur. I can't even remain in this camp. I'm certain Baas is waiting to cross over and hunt us down at the next convergence."

"If you don't mind me asking," said Daraken. "What exactly did you do to incur Baas' wrath?"

Ara took a deep breath. "Seor's group, with my... assistance... prevented the transfer of a xenolith to Venen. It was to be the linchpin of the peace treaty."

Esayos traded a stunned glance with Daraken.

"They're giving up our portals now?" said Daraken.

"You weren't aware of this?" said Ara. "I would have thought Baren would have kept the militia leadership informed."

"We had no idea," said Daraken. "This is outrageous! We knew there were negotiations under way. But... giving away xenoliths? How could they do such a thing? Do the Philosophers know?"

"Now you see why I can't be here when Baas returns," said Ara.

Voices spilled across the compound from the gate.

"Someone's coming," said Ara, alarmed. She shot to her feet and looked towards the infirmary.

"It's okay," said Esayos. "Just friends."

A small party of militia entered the compound. Ara squinted into the reflected glow of the fire light as they approached. Garoen, her former commander walked beside Sing, his top sergeant.

"You've gone and told people I am back?" said Ara. "Are you insane? Do you know how fast gossip travels around this camp?"

"Don't worry," said Daraken. "We were discrete. Just thought you might like to see some friendly faces."

Garaoen and Sing came over and a hearty hug, not bothering with the cool formality of a shoulder bump.

"So glad to see you back so soon," said Garoen.

"Well, don't get used to it," said Ara. "I won't be sticking around."

"You're still worried about Baas?" said Daraken. "Don't. We'll protect you."

"You can't possibly," said Ara, agitated. "He will go straight to Ingar."

"Relax, comrade," said Daraken. "We have days before the next passage. Let us see what we can work out. I will arrange an assembly of captains. Ingar, of course, has decreed against such meetings, but that hasn't stopped us yet."

"What's this about... Baas?" said Garoen.

***

The morning chores were already underway. Voices bantered, pots clanked, carts trundled across bumpy ground. Ara lay still under her blanket, listening for signs that Ingar had found them out and had sent a security detail after them.

She had stayed up late at the fire pit, and now she regretted telling the others about her misadventures in attacking the Mercomar. They had reacted with amazement and good cheer, but Ara couldn't help thinking that what she had shared sufficed to incriminate herself and all who harbored her to charges of sedition.

Seor groaned and shifted. She muttered something, half in dream.

"Seor? Are you awake?" said Ara.

"Who's there?" said Seor. She lifted her head and opened her eyes, blinking rapidly, fearful. "Where am I?"

"You're with me, Ara, in the camps, with a detachment of Suul militia."

"Esayos," said Seor.

"And Daraken."

"Good," said Seor. Her eyes grew wider, clearer. "That's good."

"How are you feeling?" said Ara.

"Hurts to move," said Seor. "I'm hungry, though."

"That's good," said Ara. "A good sign. Here, have some tea. It's cold, but it's good that you drink." She helped Seor site up and passed her a mug.

"I'm sorry," said Seor.

"For what?"

"For causing so much trouble for you," said Seor.

"You've caused nothing," said Ara. "This is my own doing. I chose this path."

"Regrets?"

"Not for choosing this path," said Ara. "For some mis-steps along the way, maybe."

"Such is life," said Seor, sipping her tea.

"We need to go soon," said Ara. "Daraken's offered to shelter us, but it's not right to put him at such risk.

"Where would we go?" said Seor.

"I don't know," said Ara. "We could try and find what's left of the others. Canu. Vul. Pari. Or... go off and try to find the First Cadre."

Seor snorted and sprayed a mouthful of tea onto the dirt floor.

"Why do you laugh?" said Ara, puzzled by her reaction.

"That was supposed to be our mission," said Seor. "We failed miserably. We only succeeded in getting lost and confused."

"Well, I bet I could find them," said Ara. "I speak good Giep'o. And the local farmers know a lot more than they show or share, until you get their confidence."

"Don't think we didn't try to do the same," said Seor. "The Westerners are a reticent lot."

"Regardless," said Ara. "We have to leave the marshes."

"You can go," said Seor. "I'll take my chances here."

"But Baas will come after you. You know he will."

"I like my odds better, this time around," said Seor.

"He'll have Ingar scouring the camp to find you. They'll have Daraken and Esayos taken in and executed for harboring fugitives."

"Maybe," said Seor. "Maybe not. You can go if you wish. I'm staying."

***

Seor and Ara sat together on stumps by the fire pit, dining on a breakfast of the starchy pith extracted from the shoots of a large-leafed herb that grew on the periphery of the marsh. The cook gave them each a large bowl, ladling gravy over the top.

Ara kept her eyes on the gate, ready with her dagger at any loud sound or sudden movement. She had already widened a hole in the fencing behind the infirmary in case they needed an escape route.

Esayos announced his entrance with a whistle. He took one step down onto the slant of clay and waved the women over.

"What's wrong?" said Ara, helping Seor to her feet.

"Nothing's wrong," said Esayos. "I'm taking you to the assembly of captains. Daraken will meet us there. He's still working the compounds, trying to get some of the shyer folk to attend. Some militias, we didn't even bother with. They're lost causes, but some are simply cautious about offending Ingar. They just need a little coaxing. But don't worry. The place will be full, regardless."

"Why do you need us to attend?" said Ara. "Is it really wise for us to be seen in public?"

"You're the whole reason we're holding this affair," said Esayos. "Do you think all those captains would show up on short notice if it they knew it was to be me and Daraken jabbering at them again?"

"You want us... to speak?" Ara quailed at the thought of addressing a crowd of officers at an illicit assembly, all under Ingar's nose.

Seor tapped her arm. "Don't worry," she said. "I can do the talking."

"But you're not... strong," said Ara.

"Strong enough to speak," said Seor.

Ara wrapped a scarf over her head and followed Esayos out of the compound. Seor didn't have to worry as much about being recognized as she had never resided in this camp. Ara had taught Giep'o in every militia compound across the marshes and was known to many. If only she were Giep'o by marriage, she could have worn a veil.

Seor walked under her own power, though she teetered on occasion and Ara had to reach out a hand to steady her.

"I have to apologize for the route I'm taking you," said Esayos. "Ingar's got his security details prowling the main track. He's gotten wind of something afoot."

"Do you think those sentries at the convergence have told him that we crossed?" said Ara.

"Not a chance," said Esayos. "Those were Daraken's men. He's been using the lesser convergences to pass messages to Sesei."

"Then how—?"

"Ingar has always had a sixth sense of sorts," said Esayos, grinning. "He can just tell when things are astir."

Somehow, that explanation did not ring true for Ara.

A murmur accompanied them as they passed along the fringes of the camp. Fighters rushed to the doorways of their motley shelters. Men and women squatting over their breakfasts, scrambled to their feet to bow and salute, arms crossed over their chests.

"This behavior is insane," Seor muttered.

"Sixth sense, my ass," said Ara. "You've been passing the word, haven't you? That a Sesep'o war hero is passing through the camp."

"It's not just Comrade Seor they're saluting," said Esayos. "Rumor has it, they know who blinded the Mercomar that has perched on that hill and mocked us twice a day every day since we came here to rot."

"You didn't!" said Ara. "You said you would protect us."

"The more who know your deeds, the more protectors you will have," said Esayos.

"Not to mention, enemies," said Ara.

So much for the discretion her benefactors had promised. Ara's hopes for anonymity were demolished. She glanced away from the gawking militias, keeping her eyes on the corrugated clay at her feet.

Esayos led them to a natural amphitheatre tucked into a dent in a mound that had been partially excavated to fill part of the marshes. The reclaimed land served as a common parade ground for the combined Suul militias.

The amphitheatre was ringed with woven lath panels and posts that screened the assembly area from view. A crowd had already gathered outside and more militia fighters had followed along the circuitous route Esayos had taken.

"Let me make sure they're ready," he said, ducking inside. Ara scanned the crowd warily. Esayos stepped out, moments later, and waved them inside. Fighters parted to let Seor and Ara pass

"I feel... dizzy," said Seor.

"Just a few more steps," said Ara, grasping Seor's elbow.

Dozens of provincial militia captains and their sergeants-at-arms were arrayed on the sides of the excavated mound, perhaps three-quarters of the camp's officer corps.

Esayos led her and Seor to a pair of cushioned stools at the base of the makeshift amphitheatre. The Captains moved in closer, like carnival attendees eager to get a better look at the purportedly mythical creatures the touts had lured them in to see.

Captain Daraken made the introductions. "You all know why you're here," he said. "The gist, at least. I have brought our comrades here to tell you in their own words, what you all need to know. We might not have much time to speak freely, so I won't be wasting any more of it. Comrade Ara? Captain Seor?"

Ara shrank away when Daraken looked to her, shaking her head, no. Seor took a long breath and stepped forward.

Murmurs propagated across the assembly. Seor attempted to speak but was drowned out. The attendees noticed and immediately silenced themselves.

"First," said Seor, shouting with too much force for her throat to handle. She modulated her tone. "First... I am no Captain. I have no official rank. I only led a small reconnaissance squad. Second, I have no idea what you know so far, so I'm going to tell you the fundamentals." Seor lost her balance slightly. Daraken and Esayos both lunged to steady her. Seor paused, staring at the grease-stained clay at their feet, collecting her breath.

"Those who lead us have gone astray," said Seor. "They deal to our enemies, things that belong to our people, enriching their prospects while defying the interests of the ordinary people, from the farmers on the plains to the merchants and traders of Ubabaor. There are those who may benefit from the treaties underway, but we... most of us, anyway... are not among them."

"Why should we believe you?" said a female voice, promptly hooted down.

"No!" said Seor. "Let her speak. She has every right to be skeptical. Believe, if you wish, but always question those who claim authority. Your complacence... you ignorance is their power. My knowledge of these acts comes from my own eyes and ears... and from the words of your own Commander Baren. This is what I know. You were brought to these marshes as a bargaining chip. Your leaders never intended you to fight the Venep'o."

"That's a lie," someone shouted above the hubbub. "Baren told me himself that the offensive will commence upon his return."

"Commander Baren was part of the plot," said Seor. "But no matter, because Baren is dead."

From the uproar stirred by her remark, it was obvious that Esayos and Daraken had not shared this news with many of the other Captains.

"How? How did he die?" asked several Captains, over each other.

"By Urep'o hands," said Seor. "But he had gone to Ur to meet Venep'o and surrender a stone... a xenolith."

The crowd's murmurs blended disbelief with disgust.

Seor raised her voice. "And the treaties being proposed will surrender some of your Provinces... permanently... in return for the preservation of others."

The assembly lost all semblance of order. Quarrels broke out among the throng and spread to the fighters gathered outside the screen. Seams opened up along the lath panels tore free under the press of eavesdropping fighters. Ara couldn't tell whether outrage or skepticism ruled the floor.

Daraken slammed the flat of an axe repeatedly against a hollowed-out hardwood log. The tone wood rang like a dull, bass bell, over-riding the din.

"Silence!" he growled.

Voices receded, allowing a reedy question to be heard above the tumult. "Which Provinces will be lost?"

Seor looked incredulous, staring out into the crowd. "Does it matter? We are all part of Sesei. All of us make Sesei what it is. Does it matter which limb we cut off? If we leave the head but take away one arm, one leg, do we still have a country?"

"What you say is troubling," said a matronly sort on the fringe. "But it almost seems preposterous and we have only your word alone to go on."

"Not so," said Daraken, stepping forward. "This woman – our own Ara of the Cadre – can vouch for the facts."

Ara cowered for a moment, but a reassuring glance from Seor unfroze her, and she stepped forward.

"It's true. All of it is true," she said. "I first heard of it from the lips of Baren. It was... confidential, then. For the ears of cadre only."

"And that explains why we've been marooned in this filthy swamp for so long," said Daraken. "Why no counterattack was ever launched. Why, still we have no orders to counterattack even though the Mercomar over Maora is destroyed."

"And this is the woman who destroyed the Mercomar!" said Seor, loudly but hoarsely, holding up Ara's hand.

Ara yanked her hand back down. A hundred faces turned and focused on her.

"Botched," Ara blurted. "We didn't send the right signal." But the cheers of the assembled captains drowned her equivocations, just as cries of alarm arose among the fighters thronging outside. Panels tore loose from posts and came crashing down. A platoon of fighters and cadre, in full armor and helms, appeared at the height of the amphitheatre, Ingar at their head.

"Enough!" Ingar screamed. "Disperse, all of you! Who authorized this travesty?"

Another group of armored militia crashed through the panels on the lower end of the amphitheatre.

The assembled officers, stunned, distressed, milled about. Ara took Seor's arm and looked for a place to flee, but the armored troops had ringed the congregation. They were surrounded.

"Tell me now! Who authorized this abomination?" Ingar demanded.

"This is a Provincial assembly," said Daraken, standing before Ara and Seor. "We have a right to meet on Provincial matters. You have no right to interfere."

"I am steward of this army. I do as I see fit," said Ingar. "Ara? Is that you, cowering? I should have known."

"Leave," said Daraken, voice thundering. "You're not wanted here."

"Not wanted?" Ingar laughed. "This is my command. Who are you to—?"

"Sweep them out!" shouted Daraken. "All of them. Sweep them out of here! All of them! This is our assembly. It is our right to meet."

"Stand your ground!" said Ingar, to his conscripted enforcers.

The assembled officers hesitated, but the fighters outside the amphitheatre held no qualms. They surged into the amphitheatre, shoving the armored enforcers beyond the fences. Ara, emboldened and inspired by her comrades, joined them, barreling into a frightened, young man who looked like he would rather be anywhere else right now. The enforcers as a rule, militia themselves on rotating duty, were passive and confused, reluctant to employ their weapons against unarmed comrades.

But not Ingar.

He drew his saber and slashed at the first fighter who dared come near him. A young woman with short, braided hair shrieked and collapsed, blood spilling like a waterfall down the gash in her flaxen shift.

All in the amphitheatre heard the scream and many saw the girl fall under the bite of Ingar's blade. Any remaining shred of order or restraint evaporated. The mob exploded in a rage fueled by two hundred days of deprivation and frustration in the marshes.
Chapter 51: The Climb

Tezhay waited atop the headwall with Miles and Misty. The others straggled far behind, slowed not only by Liz's bad hip but her last-minute search for Castor and Pollux, her yellow dogs. A spell of calling and whistling finally conjured them from a willow brake, and they came bounding up a ravine.

"Damn curs," said Misty. "I don't get them dogs. Poor Frank comes along and they go straight for his throat. We get the whole Crasac army on our doorstep, and not a peep."

"They seem to like me well enough," said Miles.

"Well, aren't you special?" said Misty.

"The dogs are scare," said Tezhay. "They go for hide."

The last squad of militia to leave the vale had just passed them, leaving only some village irregulars and a few of Tezhay's volunteers to defend the farm. Catapults had made a mess of the terraces, but the main house and barns still stood. Every few minutes the defenders grew frantic as another wave of attackers came at them. The chug of their assault rifles echoed up the vale.

"Those guys better not waste all our bullets," said Miles. He had been sulking since Tezhay relieved him of Tom's rifle, insisting it could be put to better use at the front.

"Is no waste," said Tezhay. "They buy time. Keep Crasac from coming up cliffs too fast. I am only afraid that they wait too long. They need to run soon."

Feril's fighters busied themselves preparing breastworks from cut sod and felled trees to bolster a natural rampart of ledges. The main defense line curved along the headwall with sight lines into the pair of ravines that drained into the vale: paths of egress that Feril hoped to turn into killing zones.

A second crew labored on a fallback line higher up the meadows, exploiting a stream cut that slanted across the slopes like a saber cut.

The Nalkies had fanned out on both flanks: Teo and Idala on the left facing the valley, Igwa on the right. Teo and Idala had their Nalkies prepare makeshift fortifications, but Igwa had a completely different tactical philosophy. He left the meadows unmarred, and stationed his mostly-mounted fighters behind a series of isolated copses. When the fight came, he would opt for fluidity over trench warfare.

"Wish they'd hurry it up," said Miles agitated, shifting his weight, glancing up into the hills. "Can't we just... carry her? Stick her on a stretcher or something."

"You just try and touch her," said Misty. "She'll break both your arms."

"Is okay, Mr. Miles," said Tezhay. "Is no rush. We have time."

A group of Igwa's horsemen sprang from a clump of trees to chase down a lone rider who had wandered too close."

"Cuasar scout," said Tezhay. "How does he get up here? Not good sign."

Something bright glinted from the base of the spire overlooking the vale, where a handful of figures were traversing a rock fall. A small mirror flashed as it bounced on its bearer's belt.

"Look at this fool," said Tezhay. "A signal mirror should be cover when you not use. They show everybody how they go."

"Who is that down there?" said Miles.

"Is those other people," said Tezhay. "Feril calls them cadre. Somehow... I don't think so."

"Oh! It's happened," said Misty. "The villagers are running!"

The skirmishers could barely move fast enough up the lane to escape the onslaught of Crasacs coming up the cliffs. Misty gasped at the sight of several villagers felled by arrows and finished off by Crasac sabers. Feril shouted orders to his fighters to abandon their labors and take up arms.

Meanwhile, Lizbet and her clan approached the last pitch before the top of the headwall.

"Hurry, guys! Hurry!" said Misty, bouncing on her toes, her eyes wide and round.

***

Frank was the first of the stragglers to exit the ravine. He felt strong: a bit out of breath from the climb and his heart did its syncopation routine, but it was no big deal. His head remained clear.

Upon reaching the ledges where Tezhay waited beside Miles and Misty, the soldiers behind them suddenly boiled up out of their bulwarks and dispersed along the headwall.

"What's going on?" said Frank.

"The farm, it is fall," said Tezhay, rifle slung loosely in his arms. He stared into the vale, face blank and grim.

Frank swiveled around to see several ranks of Crasacs advancing up the first terrace. Bowmen backing them flung volleys after the retreating defenders.

Tom and Ellie passed, arm in arm with Bimji. Liz brought up the rear, escorted by her yellow dogs. She leaned heavily on her staff, every step a production. Misty hustled to her side and tried to relieve her of her satchel.

"I've got it," she said. "Get away! Shoo!" Her dogs amplified her will with snarls and teeth when Misty persisted.

"Should have put that woman down with some of that bolovo," muttered Frank.

Tezhay's head swiveled, eyes pinched. "And you want this lady to like you?"

Fighters sifted past, loaded crossbows at their hips. Their appearance atop the ravine blunted the Crasacs' pursuit. They halted at the end of the lane and let the retreating skirmishers escape.

Several Crasacs emerged from the cook shack bearing firebrands and set fire to the curtains of the main house, the hay stacked against one of the barns. Columns of smoke began to rise. Bimji, pained, caught Frank's eye. "Do not say anything," he whispered.

As Liz approached, she saw the looks on everyone's face and whipped around.

"Oh!" she said, in a small voice. She stared down at the conflagration, panting.

"Don't watch, Liz," said Frank. "Just keep on walking."

"He is right," said Bimji. "You should not look."

"It's my own damn farm!" said Liz. "If I want to see it burn, I'll see it burn!"

Her chest began to heave. She sobbed. "Bastards!" she said. "Such a waste. A perfectly good house. They didn't have to burn it. Some colonist could have used it." When she finally turned away, she did not look back.

***

Lizbet's clan rested and prepared to leave. Frank looked around for Tezhay and found him debriefing a pair of his volunteer riflemen. They had just returned from cliff-side and were reloading their weapons from an ammo case strapped to the back of a commandeered mule.

"We're about ready to go," said Frank. "You coming with us?"

Tezhay shook his head. "I stay. For fight."

A strange bit of queasiness rippled through Frank. "So this is it?"

Tezhay nodded.

"You sure you want to do this?" said Frank. "The odds... don't seem very good."

"Is better than you think," said Tezhay. "We make for them some... surprise."

Frank bumped shoulders with Tezhay one at a time, and gave him a bear hug for good measure.

"You learn at least, how to say goodbye," said Tezhay.

"Thanks," said Frank.

"For what? Taking you prisoner?"

"For helping me find Liz," said Frank. "And looking after me."

Tezhay shrugged and strode off past the ledges, into the meadows, AK swinging on his shoulder.
Chapter 52: The Pinnacle

When Canu heard that Feril sought scouts to survey the battlefield, Canu volunteered his services and those of his friends, without their foreknowledge or consent. Once they overcame their ire over Canu's impudence, Vul and Pari seemed eager and excited at the prospect of aiding the cause.

Canu led the way to the pinnacle. He took them up the backside this time, because things were getting too dangerous at the cliff face. They crossed the creek and zig-zagged up a series of vertiginous pitches to surmount the ridge that connected the spire to the high meadows.

"Strangest mountain I've ever seen," said Vul. "Like someone rammed a spike through a loaf of bread."

"I see a finger pointing up from someone's fist," said Pari.

They both looked to Canu.

"You don't want to know what I think it looks like," said Canu, knowing his answer would only draw ridicule.

Pari was already smirking. She probably guessed that he was going to say that it looked like an erect penis poking up from a giant's pelvis.

They scaled the heap of shattered stone collected at the base of the pillar, which was split into columns like a collection of reeds bundled for thatching. Vertical cracks ran their whole length. Upon reaching the solid stone of the spire, they stopped and stared at the daunting heights.

"This is as far as we can go," said Vul. "We can try and work our way around to the front."

"I can climb it. No problem," said Canu, leaping onto the stub of a broken column.

"Canu... there's no need," said Pari.

"There's a clear view into the valley from the top. Let me go!"

Canu picked his way up an irregular staircase of broken columns until he reached the intact face of the pillar, sweeping up unbroken to its summit. Unfazed, he exploited the many cracks and finger-holds and toe-holds in its chipped and weathered surface to ascend.

"Careful!" called Pari.

Ever since he was a child, he had been a good climber: the best in his play group. 'Monkey boy,' they had called him, intending to deride him, but throughout life he had turned the insult on its face into a source of pride.

He had climbed the height of four stacked houses when he reached for the next handheld to find only air. He pulled himself up onto a slanted table, barely wide enough for a single person to recline. He didn't dare stand against the strong gusts battering the summit. He anchored his forearm in a crevice and slumped, to catch his breath.

He crawled across the summit and peered over the brink. His stomach did a loop. The drop on the valley side was twice again as deep as the face he had climbed.

The Venep'o had been busy since the last time he looked into the valley. Supply wagons crowded the river road. Three wide corridors of forest leading up to the cliffs had been completely leveled. Hundreds of men worked to position rolling siege platforms with towers and ladders against the cliff face. Hundreds more followed along the ramps and an equivalent force of Crasacs and Cuasars waited in reserve in the fields beside the river.

The thinly deployed Nalkies and militia in the meadows had no chance against the army amassing below. The handful of Urep'o weapons scattered among them would not be enough to sway the outcome.

"What do you see?" said Pari, called up from the heap of rubble below, her voice muffled by the whip of the wind. Canu slid back from the edge and looked down at his expectant comrades.

"Crasacs," said Canu, shouting down. "Too many Crasacs."

"Where?" said Vul.

"Everywhere," said Canu.

"Which way are they coming?" said Pari.

"Every way," said Canu.

"Can you be more specific?" roared Vul.

"They have ladders. They're coming up the vale. They're coming to the right and they're coming to the left." He looked across the meadows and noted several clusters of riders circling wide on the extreme flanks of the defenders. "They're coming around both sides as well."

Canu felt for the signal mirror he had attached to his belt. It was gone.

"My mirror. I lost my mirror."

He rose up on his knees to look for it. The wind caught him and nudged him towards the brink. He dropped to his stomach and stuck his edge out over the void to see Pari fishing it out of a patch of grass.

"Can you... bring it up to me?"

"I can't climb like you," said Pari. "You'll have to come down."

Canu peered down at the route he had climbed. His muscles still trembled from the climb. He didn't have the strength to get down just yet, never mind climb back up.

"You have to flash Feril yourself," said Canu.

"What do we say?" said Pari.

"Tell him, they're coming."

"How many?"

"Hundreds. Maybe a thousand. Maybe more."

He slid back to the other face on his belly. As he absorbed the scene before him, Canu realized that the enemy forces were arrayed asymmetrically and the main attack would not be directed at the vale as Feril expected. Crasacs had already swarmed into the vale, driving the villagers defending it up into the ravines, but Canu could see that it was just a bluff. The bulk of the force was preparing to mount the cliffs to Feril's right. Igwa's Nalkies would bear the brunt. Clearly they would be over-run if they weren't supported.

Canu crawled back from the brink and poked his head down to meet the upturned gaze of his comrades, who had climbed partway up the spire.

"To his right. They're coming to the right," said Canu. "What's coming up the vale is a feint."

"It's a what?" said Vul.

"A trick," said Canu. "A misdirection. The real attack is coming from the east."

Pari scrambled down and worked her way over to the side of the bluff.

"I see ladders on the cliffs," she said. "He's right."

"Good job, Canu," said Vul. "Finally, you tell us something useful."

Pari stepped out into the sun and began flashing a signal up into the meadows, repeating every phrase twice, to ensure it was read.

The militia at the headwall flashed signals back requesting that Pari's message be repeated, as if Feril didn't believe what he had been told. His troops remained in place, arrayed in force against the Crasacs in the veil.

Ladders fixed in place, Crasacs swarmed up and formed up into ranks opposite Igwa's scattered knots of riders. Crasacs had breached the cliffs on both sides now and were well entrenched in the vale.

Lizbet's farm burned. The villagers who had been guarding it waged a fighting retreat, harassing a small band of Crasacs before fleeing up the gullies to the temporary safety of Feril's defense line.

A formation of Crasacs moved out from the cliffs to make room for the next. Feril's fighters finally reacted, abandoning the ambush they had set around the vale, while his undermanned flank braced for contact with the first block of Crasacs advancing up a slant of meadow. Some of Igwa's horsemen swarmed out of hiding to fill the void, but the far end of their flank was now threatened by enemy horsemen galloping under a blue flag – Cuerti – who had ridden all the way around the cliffs to the East. Canu could not spot any evidence of the Western Nalkies. Either they were well hidden or they had fled.

"What's it look like up there?" said Vul.

"Disaster," said Canu. "I see a rout in the making."

Crasacs flowed up the ladders as if they were spigots. A second block formed and maneuvered alongside the first, cutting off Canu and his comrades from Feril's lines. They were cornered against the pinnacle, blocked by enemy and precipices.

They had no recourse now but lay low and watch the unfolding battle. Canu grew agitated, frustrated to be a mere spectator, powerless to influence the outcome. With the enemy now arrayed in plain view of Feril and Igwa, his scouting had been rendered moot.

"Canu, come down from there," said Pari.

Canu tested himself, but his fingers and forearms shook when he put weight on them. He felt took shaky to attempt a descent.

"I can't," said Canu. "Not yet."

"We should stay low," said Pari, hunkering down among the stones. "Not show ourselves. Maybe they'll ignore us. Pass us by."

"Unlikely," said Vul. "All that flashing. They had to have spotted us."

"We need to find a way out of here," said Pari, pacing the base of the pinnacle like a mouse cornered in a granary.

"Calm down. There is nowhere to go," said Vul. "We can't return to the vale. Where we don't have cliffs, we have Crasacs."

"What do we do, then?" she said, her voice gone reedy. "We're going to die here, aren't we?"

"We fight as long as we can," said Vul. "Then we lay down arms. Pray they'll take prisoners."

Vul's words seemed to placate Pari, offering her a slim hope where she saw none. But Canu saw no way these Crasacs would bother to take them alive.

When he looked out over all the empty space between him and the valley, Canu felt a revelation. There were a few things in life worse than death and becoming a Venep'o slave was among them. Once doom became inevitable and imminent he would take a running leap off the spire. Better to be dashed against the rocks than be impaled by a filthy Crasac blade or bolt.

His decision returned to him a sense of calm. Once again, he controlled his fate. While he could, he tried to appreciate the smell of the wind and the glories of the landscape below, despite the carnage about to stain it. His stomach fluttered, but at least the queasiness quelled the hunger that had nagged him all morning.

"I'm staying up here," said Canu. "I will be your eyes. I won't let them surprise you."

He wedged his foot into a crack and tried to find a position that was both stable and comfortable, one that didn't make him feel like he was constantly about to slide off the summit. He found a pit to bed his knee down into, and hooked his forearm into a deep cleft. He became one with the pinnacle, blending flesh with stone.

His eyes drifted to the hills where he had last seen Ara wander into the trees. His mouth went dry and his breath came quicker. It had nothing to do with the altitude. He cursed the vision that kept returning to haunt him, of Ara parting the branches and disappearing into the trees. He should have followed her. If he had, maybe he could have prevented whatever had happened to her, and avoided his present fate, as well.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to think only positive thoughts, promising himself that he would see her again somewhere, somehow.

"Canu... are you watching... or sleeping?" shouted Vul. "I hear someone coming up behind us. Can you see? Are they friend... or foe?"

Six Crasacs bearing dark, sleek crossbows climbed up the side of the vale.

"Foes! Foes!" Canu shouted "To your right!"
Chapter 53: Insurrection

At the head of the excavated amphitheatre, Ingar's security detail stood firm against the initial onslaught. Stones bounced harmlessly off shields and helms; sticks and clubs no match for their pikes and swords. The mutineers fell back.

"Where are their weapons?" said Ara. The dagger she held was one of the rare few she could see.

"Locked in the armories, by Ingar's decree," said Daraken.

The second band of enforcers, led by Drialeun, Ingar's lieutenant, pushed across flats, heading straight for Seor, who faced them calmly, awaiting, accepting her fate.

Daraken watched behind a post, confused and aghast at what he had unleashed.

"Say something!" hissed Ara. "Do something!"

"This is... out of my control," said Daraken.

Ara shoved her way through the milling crowd to get to Seor. When she got there, a group of Esayos' fighters had already closed around her protectively.

The enforcers stopped, faces grim. It was a standoff.

"Surrender her," said Drialeun. She glanced towards Ara. "And that one as well. Give us both and we'll leave you be."

"They're with us," said one of the militia folk. "You want them, you'll have to take us all."

"I don't want to have to hurt you," said Drialeun. "You all know this is wrong."

Drialeun's enforcers showed restraint with their weapons, using them only to prod those who got in their way and to keep the mutineers at bay.

A piercing cry from atop the amphitheatre indicated that Ingar's group had no such qualms when it came to shedding blood. Casualties accumulated around them, their brutality created a buffer between them and the wary mutineers, giving them clear passage down to the flats.

More militia arrived and circled Drialeun's band. Some appeared to be only spectators but that distinction seemed lost on Drialeun, who drew her enforcers back. The militia folk, sensing her reluctance, edged forward, forcing them out beyond the fencing. Ara caught Drialeun's eye, sensing more perplexity than hate.

The woman first felled by Ingar's blade was conveyed gently through the crowd. Blood trickled from her chest, from blued lips, dripping along the ground, anointing those who carried her, galvanizing those who watched her pass, Hands reached out as she went by, consoling, praying. To Ara, the wounds looked mortal.

Ingar's livid visage was visible even beneath his helm. He stormed about like a mad rooster. "Cease!" he shouted. "Get back to your compounds now... or die!"

Resistance began to waver. Many complied with Ingar's request, respectful of Ingar's authority as steward and commander of the camp, fully expecting Ingar and his detail to re-exert control. And for a time, the enforcers held the upper hand, driving the mutineers out of the amphitheatre.

But Ingar's words seemed only to incite the more committed mutineers. Unarmed, they danced at the edge of the bands of enforcers, taunting them, parrying pikes with poles torn from the fencing. Ingar's detail, augmented by his fellow cadre officers, responded with brutality.

Arrows flew overhead, some finding purchase among bystanders. Some among Ingar's group shot blindly into the amphitheatre, sowing mayhem and fear. Onlookers, uncommitted to either cause, got caught in the kill zone and scrambled to get away. Confusion reigned. Chaos ruled.

"He's desperate," said Ara. "Thinks all of us are against him."

Daraken's eyes darted. "Are we not?"

Arrows continued to fly. The amphitheatre cleared as panicked militia squeezed into adjacent compounds, piling over those who stumbled and fell.

Each bloodied face, each fallen comrade, stirred more outrage, giving second thought to some leaving the scene in compliance with Ingar's order. They reversed direction, rejoining the smoldering insurrection.

One group tore through the mud and wattle wall of a nearby armory and started handing out pikes. Suddenly, it was no longer a matter of sticks against swords. The enforcers' boldness waned in the face of the growing numbers of mutineers coming at them with real weapons. Drialeun's detail was forced into the marsh, wallowing through a moat to reach the reeds.

Sympathizers from the far side of the camp arrived, responding to the commotion, eager for action. Mutineers from every Province intermingled, acting independent of their officers.

Esayos and his sergeant whisked Seor out of the amphitheatre with an escort of their Suulep'o comrades. Ara struggled to catch up with them, dodging around bands of militia coming to fight.

"Where are you taking her?" said Ara.

"Someplace safer," said Esayos. "Who knows what's going to happen here? I have no idea how many are with us. It looks like a lot, but..."

Seor looked drained, but she smiled faintly as she retreated with Esayos and his fighters.

Several small, but growing groups of mutineers advanced against Ingar behind chunks of lath panel. Other bands rallied behind them and converged into a mob that surged up the side of the amphitheatre.

Ingar and the remnants of his detachment retreated down an alley, heading back towards the Cadre compounds.

***

The mutineers stood atop the amphitheatre and celebrated their victory over Ingar, brandishing their tools of their insurrection over their heads: fence posts, sling shots, scythes, pikes and even some bows and swords liberated from the enforcers.

Fighters gathered around Daraken and Ara, their energy contagious.

"You've done it now," said Ara.

"What have I done?" said Daraken. "Besides encourage the inevitable?"

"Did you not intend to take on the Cadre?" said Ara.

"I intended nothing," said Daraken. "I just wanted to share what you told us to our comrades. I never expected—"

"Never?"

"Hoped," said Daraken. "Not expected."

"Don't look at me," said Ara. "I had given up all hope."

She gazed across the central lane towards the Cadre sector, where loyalists had taken up positions to fend off any follow-up attacks by the mob.

"We have to leave camp," said Ara. "Ingar will counter and soon. He wasn't expecting this level of resistance. Next time he'll mobilize entire companies against us."

Daraken looked grim. "But... how many can possibly be with him?"

"Steward or not, he is this camp's commander," said Ara. "His rank alone will sway the dutiful."

"Let's let the dust settle," said Daraken. "See where we stand." He smiled faintly. "This... may not be up to the captains."

Throngs of excited soldiers surged around them as they made their way back to the Suulep'o compounds. More armories had been opened and emptied, some by force. Mutineers strapped on armor, honed blades and overstuffed quivers with bolts and arrows accumulated from months of bored crafting from local reeds and flint, fletched with the feathers of marsh birds

Sergeants ran up to Daraken, peppering him with questions.

"Where do we form up?"

"Should we draw a new perimeter?"

"We should strike now, before the bastard organizes."

"Hold on," said Daraken. "I'm just the facilitator. I'm not your commander. We need another assembly."

Ara could see that the sergeants disagreed. "I suggest that we leave the marshes," she said. "Cross north to the river. You will find allies there. Nalkies... maybe others."

"From the looks of it, we have all the allies we need right here," said Daraken. "Let's not be too hasty about running off. I sense the momentum gathering. We can't force it. We need to let it happen on its own."

One of the sergeants spoke up. "We can barricade the central lane and set up a cordon," she said. "We let anyone cross who wishes to join us. Confine those who openly express sympathies for Ingar."

"Excellent!" said Daraken. "Helps concentrate our supporters. I like it! Do it! I'm not too keen on punishing the fence-sitters, though. How about we just disarm them?"

The sergeant tipped her chin and scurried off.

"Anyone sitting on a fence right now deserves to be knocked off," muttered Ara.

"In due course," said Daraken. "Let's cultivate our true constituency first. They'll reveal themselves as the truth spreads."

Esayos and Seor were already at the compound when they arrived, along with another group of captains and sergeants waiting to consult with Daraken.

Esayos came up to Ara. "Comrade Seor's a prime target. I want to send her off into the hills with a detachment, but she refuses."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Seor. "I'm not worth much as a fighter these days, but I want to be with you all, no matter what happens. These are my people."

"It's up to her," said Ara, shrugging.

"No detachments," said Daraken. "It is best we all stick together right now." He turned to address the mob of officers beleaguering him.

Ara went over and embraced Seor. She had never been filled with such a jumble of thrill and hope and fear and dread all at one time. Tears spilled down her face, but she could not pinpoint their source.

***

All throughout the afternoon, brawls and skirmishes flared, even among militias who had lived and trained with each other for years. Some units were lucky to find unanimity in their support for one side or the other. Others were torn asunder between those faithful to Ingar and those supporting the insurrection.

A continuous flow of militia crossed the impromptu border erected along one side of the central avenue, demarcated by alleys and paths blocked with overturned wagons and heaps of peat brick.

Entire companies marched across in fine order and full battle gear. A steady trickle of deserters also came, from companies whose captains had sided with Ingar. A coalition of sergeants greeted all warmly and assigned them to host companies and compounds.

Fighters found deserting in the other direction were allowed to go, but only after their weapons were confiscated. One belligerent group of Ubabaor loyalists, however, managed to force their way back to Ingar.

Reluctantly and by default, Daraken had become the de facto leader of the insurrection. He had been the most outspoken of the dissident captains, the one who organized their assemblies to air grievances. It was only natural that he should run the show. He assumed the role with humility.

Seor had a symbolic role, particularly with the Suulep'o, who coddled her like a celebrity, to Ara's good-natured chagrin. Some of their heroine worship rubbed off on the other militias, though most only knew her as the woman who blew the whistle on the cadre's deceit.

As junior cadre, Ara offered credibility to the mutineer's cause. She was well known to all. Her participation helped reassure some that their actions were more patriotic than treasonous.

Daraken and Esayos huddled with Ara and Seor and a group of captains under a thatched awning in the center of their compound, which had become the command center for the insurrection.

"Ingar's cavalry have few horses," said Esayos. "Our people reached the stables before Ingar could abscond with them."

"And we have the xenolith under guard," said a captain from the Ubabaor militia.

"Ingar controls the common supplies," said another captain.

"Not anymore," said a sergeant, smirking. "There have been raids."

"We need to know our strength versus his," said Daraken.

"I'm afraid we don't have many solid muster reports," said Esayos. "I'm afraid the numbers keep changing with all these dribs and drabs coming across the cordon. But I don't see how he has more than us. We're still augmenting companies with deserters. Some of our compounds are bursting at the gills."

"But he's kept some of the top units under his wing," said Ara. "He's still dangerous."

"I fear we're not very well organized," said Daraken. "Coordinating actions is going to be difficult. I'm not sure how we would handle a full scale confrontation. Things could get very messy."

"Which is why we need to leave," said Ara.

Daraken rubbed his eyes and rested his fingertips on his bristly chin. "Maybe... it's time we go."

"Why would he attack us if he knows we have the advantage?" said a young captain. "Why protract this? It only spills more blood ... for nothing."

"He is a righteous ass, that's why," said Seor, reclining on the clay.

"If I know Ingar..." said Ara. "He'll obey the letter of his orders; take no risk that would endanger a promotion."

"He's lost control of most of his army," said Esayos. "Who's going to promote him? The Alar?"

A messenger came dashing into the compound, breathless. "Commander Ingar. He's withdrawing from the camps. His companies are crossing the moats. They're taking up positions along the Xama road."

"He's blocking us," said Ara. "Trapping us in the marshes."

"We need to strike quickly," said Esayos. "Before they harden up their lines."

Daraken looked stunned. For a moment, Ara saw something like the look of a frightened deer in his eyes, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Muster an assault," he said. "Suul at the head. Full armor. Pikes in front. Send the cavalry wide around his backside. If he wants to block us, we'll block him too."

Seor shook her head. "Brother against sister," she said. "When we should be fighting Crasacs. Shameful."

***

The contrast between one side of the camp and the other was stark, the central avenue demarcating the wasteland created by Ingar's loyalists. They had dismantled and burned the part of the camps they had occupied and had hauled anything of value into the forest with them.

"Why would he do this?" said Daraken. "Where does he plan to go?"

"To the Venep'o perhaps?" said Esayos.

"He can't possibly be that stupid," said Seor.

"There are other xenoliths," said Ara. "Senior cadre know their location."

Three companies from Suul led the column formed up in the central lane. They advanced in tactical formation, pikes and shields at the head, supported by swords and bows. The cavalry had already crossed over the marshes down a pair of hunting trails and would circle wide around Ingar's rear.

"What did we learn of their strength?" said Daraken.

"Six companies at most," said Esayos. "Four somewhat depleted but nearly intact. The equivalent of two more compiled from loyalist deserters."

Seor smirked. "Interesting choice of words."

"We have twelve, nine of them whole," said Daraken, "But they own the heights."

"There may be another company at Xama under Captain Feril," said Ara. "I am sure they are with us... if they still..." Ara paused and pursed her lips. "And yet another on the hilltop, guarding the approach to camp. But I'm not confident that Captain Dalii would be on our side."

Daraken halted the column at the hastily damaged fortifications flanking the main causeway leading to the Xama road. A scout ran back from a strongpoint across the first of several moats.

"Skirmishers," said the young woman. "Just within the fringe. The others are digging in a short ways up-slope. They haven't gotten far."

"Probe them," said Daraken. "Let's see how much they bend."

Esayos sent a platoon from his own Suul militia forward, comprised of lightly armored assault troops. Arrows immediately came their way, although most flew high or into the ponds to either side. They kept advancing, slowly but deliberately.

"See how they shoot?" said Seor. "They are better marksmen than that. Their hearts must not be in this fight."

"Flank them," said Daraken. "Press their flanks."

Esayos sent two more platoons forward, diverging into the muck of the marsh, holding their weapons above their head. He nodded to Daraken. "My turn. Wish us luck."

"Do not engage," said Daraken, his face flushed and sweaty. "Just see if they stand their ground."

Esayos followed the first platoon across the moat with his reserves.

Companies filled in behind them to fill the void. A long line of militias queued down the lane all the way back into the heart of the camp.

Ingar's skirmishers began to rustle, their movements revealing their shields and pikes situated just within the fringe of vegetation at the marsh's edge.

Seor climbed over the fortifications and onto the causeway.

Ara stepped onto the berm. "Where are you going?"

"I need to speak to them," said Seor, tossing back a glance. "They need to understand."

"Seor, no! It's dangerous."

Seor slipped away, passing through Esayos' reserves, heading for the lead platoon, which had halted at the edge of the second moat.

"Someone... stop her!" said Ara. But no one dared stand in Seor's way.

Seor sifted through the lead platoon and emerged at their head, stepping slowly onto the causeway through the second moat. The skirmishers remained in place behind the first row of trees. They held their fire for now.

Seor raised her palms. "I seek palaver with Commander Ingar."

After a pause, a woman parted the branches. "Who the hell are you? Why should Commander Ingar—?"

"Because I was with Baren and Baas in Ur," said Seor. "I know everything. My actions led to Baren's death."

"Death?" said the woman, her voice ringing with shock.

Whispers swept through the line of skirmishers like a foul breeze.

Ara came up behind Seor and spoke into her ear. "That's Elsehei," said Ara, "She's junior cadre and she's hard-core. You'll get nowhere talking to her."

"Traitor!" shouted Elsehei.

"It's you who serve the enemy," said Seor, her voice hoarse. "Lay down your arms and let us pass. Or join us if you wish to drive the Venep'o out of Gi."

Laughter arose among the trees here and there, but most of the skirmishers kept silent. A movement caught Ara's attention. Someone had crept into a patch of bushes extending into the marsh. A black crossbow glinted, one of the finest sort used by cadre marksmen.

"We should move back," said Ara.

"I'm not finished," said Seor.

Another group of fighters came down the hillside behind the skirmishers. Ingar himself stepped from the trees in full armor and helm, flanked by a pair of cadre bearing shields.

"Go back to your holes you whores," said Ingar. "Don't let Daraken cower behind your skirts. Send that coward forward to see me."

Daraken pushed through the platoons and came up alongside Seor and Ara. "Let us pass, Ingar. That's all we ask. You can have the camp. We've left the xenolith in place. Return and report us to Sesei, if you must. We only wish to leave the marshes."

Ingar's chest heaved at the sight of Daraken. He kicked at the ground like an angry bull. "Criminal! You are an abomination. You and your assemblies. I should have known this would happen. Should have snuffed you out months ago. You'll have no chance before the tribunals."

"Depends," said Daraken. "Who selects the tribunals?"

Ingar glared across the moats. "All of you! I offer clemency... for mitigating circumstances. Surrender these three... and return to your compounds."

Daraken sighed. "Please Ingar, just let us pass. Don't make us fight our own friends. We've spilt enough blood"

"None shall pass," said Ingar, his voice turning shrill. "All of you, return to your billets immediately. All that do will receive a full pardon. Guaranteed. Those who follow this one are no better off than him and will receive the same fate. Guaranteed."

"We intend to open that road, Ingar," said Daraken. "We want out of these marshes. Nothing will stand in our way."

Seor strode forward. Ara reached for her. She pulled away.

"What are you doing?"

Seor ignored her. Her steps were unsteady. She wobbled like a sapling in a stiff wind.

"Listen to me," Seor croaked. "Your cadre has forsaken you. All of you, whether you're from Piliar, Cracao, Diomet, Ubabaor. A cabal has taken hold of your government and is collaborating with the enemy. You serve the will of Venen by opposing us."

"Lies!" shouted Ingar, behind a pair of shields raised by his protectors. "We know traitors when we see them. We saw them mutiny. We do the will of the Inner Quorum, the Provincial Council."

"Cabals!" said Seor. "The terms of this so-called peace benefit only the cabals. Any peace that comes can be dashed at the enemy's whim. If we surrender whole provinces, Sesei will be no more."

"What Seor says is true," said Ara "It's true. True! I went with Baren to meet the enemy... in Ur."

Shields rippled behind the screen of trees. Grumbles and mumblings disturbed the loyalist lines.

"You are on a path to serve Venen!" said Seor. "They'll assign an Alar to govern Ubabaor. Colonize your villages. You and your kin will be enslaved and forced to worship the Sinkor Natadi!"

In the bushes just ahead of them crouched a man with a crossbow against his cheek and Seor in his sights.

"Seor! Down!" She dove and tackled Seor just as the bolt flew. Pain like a white hot spike pierced Ara's ribs.

Daraken's bowmen sent barrage after barrage in response. Esayos ordered his fighters to charge across the last strip of marsh. The skirmishers retreated. Fighting erupted within the forest even before the mutineers reached it. Ingar's companies had turned against each other. Loyalists dropped their weapons and dashed into the marsh, palms up. Hoof beats announced the arrival of Daraken's blocking force, taking advantage of the chaos. By the time the second wave of militia reached the trees, the battle was all over but for the sorting.

Ingar and Elsehei lay crumpled in a heap in a patch of matted reeds. The sharpshooter lay face down in a slough, pierced by so many bolts he resembled a pin cushion.

Ara writhed on the ground. Seor squirmed out from under her, lifted Ara's head and took her hand. Ara gripped it as hard as she could.

"Oh Ara, why did you do this? You should have let me take that bolt. I was ready to go. I was finished."

"No," said Ara, through gritted teeth. "It was my turn."

Chapter 54: Assault

Tezhay made the rounds of the other peregrins and said his goodbyes, while Doctor Frank hovered and watched from the fringe. Tom let him strum a few parting chords on his mandolin. Ellie and Bimji bumped shoulders with him like any good Giep'o. Lizbet kissed his cheek and stuffed his pockets with skillet bread.

Miles and Misty had already rushed off up the path so he could only wave to them. He gazed wistfully up towards the pass. Patches of snow glinted off the higher mountains. He wished he was going with them. He wondered if he was making a mistake by lingering behind in Gi.

As he headed off alone, he expected to feel more relieved than he did, finally free of the burden of looking after Doctor Frank. Ever since Belize he had led Tezhay into ever deeper troubles, but Tezhay would have never uncovered the things he did without him. He glanced back one last time to catch Doctor Frank doing the same. They waved to each other one last time.

On traversing Ferils' line, he found some of gunnery volunteers behind the hastily constructed bulwarks. They sat on stacks of ammunition boxes beside the mule that had carried them. Tezhay went to them, spotted the pair who had just abandoned the vale, and called them over as well.

He counted heads. "Only six? Who is missing?"

"Sabayol and Girhan," said Jebrehon, a young man with a paint ball rifle slung on his shoulder, assigned to him because he had been too reckless with the real guns. "They went with Sister Idala," said Jebrehon. "Sabayol knows her. She has kin out west."

"They brought enough ammunition with them, I hope."

"Plenty," said Jebrehon.

Tezhay looked down the lines. To him, both flanks seemed sparse. Feril was the only leader who had concentrated his forces. "So wide, so thin they are. I wonder why?"

"Because of the cliffs," said Jebrehon. "These gullies are the only way up. That's why we stay here."

"You know this land well?"

Jebrehon shrugged. One of the women giggled. "Don't listen to him. He's a village rat. He never comes up here except for funerals."

"And what about you? You know these hills? Their paths and gaps?"

"This is the way everyone comes," she said. "Everyone passes by Lizbet's farm to go to the pastures and barrows."

"Not these Crasacs," said Jebrehon. "They fear us." He slapped his chest and grinned, prompting a laugh from the other volunteers.

"Don't be so sure of yourselves," said Tezhay, gazing down through the smoke.

"Maybe they are happy to take the farm," said another woman. "Maybe our fighting is finished."

"You don't know this Alar very well then, do you?" Tezhay sighed. "We'll keep four guns in the middle. I'll need two to man the flank with Igwa. Who will volunteer?"

No one budged.

"Come on... I need two to cover the right flank. Who will it be?"

"Get me a horse, and I'll go," said a short man, named Hantar. Tezhay knew him through Tarikel. He had been an apprentice blacksmith in Sinta.

"Where am I supposed to get you a horse?" said Tezhay.

"I don't know," said Hantar. "But otherwise, what's the sense of being among the Nalki riders? If they run, I can't keep up. The Cuasars would catch and kill me."

Tezhay ruminated, and found the answer gnawing at the sedges by their feet.

"Help unload and you can have this mule."

"A mule? I asked for a horse," said Hantar.

"I'm afraid, this is the best I can do," said Tezhay. "Unless you'd prefer a donkey?"

Hantar nodded and helped Tezhay remove the sacks and boxes still lashed to the mules pack frame.

"Do I have another willing to join him?" said Tezhay. He looked about. "No one?"

"Do you have another mule?" said one of the women.

The volunteers laughed again, dominated by Jebrehon's guffaws.

"Alright," said Tezhay. "I guess it will have to be me. On foot. That leaves five of you to guard the center. I expect you to be watchful and mobile. You are the point of the defense. If you see the enemy move against any one place, you go there. You can leave one person behind, but the rest of you go there. Understand? I need your rifles in the place where they will make the most difference."

Tezhay looked at his crew, who stared back at him blankly, their faces inscrutable with or without veils.

"Say something!" he said. "Show me you understand."

They mumbled back to him almost in unison something that approximated an affirmative.

"Now Jebrehon," said Tezhay, lowering his voice. "If something happens, and one of the others can't wield their gun, you take it and use it. Okay?"

"But I like this one just fine," he said, patting his paintball rifle.

"Use the real gun," insisted Tezhay. "Just make sure you point it only at those you wish to see dead."

Tezhay felt in his pocket for the box of fire starters. "Alright, who is carrying the tovex?"

The others nodded towards Jebrehon.

"Not you!"

"Yes, me," said Jebrehon.

"You know how to fix it? Like I showed you all?"

"Of course," said Jebrehon.

Tezhay lifted his eyes to the sky as he handed over the fire starters. "Be careful, Jebrehon. Please."

***

Hantar rode bareback on his mule, his head swaying high and proud. Tezhay trailed behind on foot, through a stretch of open, tufted grassland, feeling pretty good about the trap Feril had set for the Crasacs. Between the automatic rifles, the Tovex and three platoons of militia boxing in the gullies, they had the makings of a massacre, particularly once one factored in the robust bulwarks and intersecting sight lines that would turn both gullies into efficient killing zones.

A flashing commenced from the base of the pinnacle at the head of the cliffs. Tezhay knew all the military codes, but the person manipulating the mirror flashed more quickly than he could decipher. There was something about trees or wood, and then something about the vale being false, and then ladders and flanks. Right flanks.

Tezhay stepped up onto a tussock and peered down the slope. He could see some men standing by the cliff edge and more men scaling the cliff to join them. Crasac scouts, perhaps? He continued on after Hantar, who was making the poor mule gallop through a patch of boggy ground with uneven footing.

Igwa had stationed his fighters in small groups behind every ledge and clump of trees. Tezhay appreciated the logic behind his approach. His fighters were mobile and could converge quickly against a foe. He had effectively set a couple dozen mini-ambushes that could be sprung no matter where the enemy decided to pass.

Hantar dismounted behind a mossy knob of bedrock the size of a large hut. Igwa's fighters laughed at his mule, but there was warmth to their heckling. One of them hauled out a spare saddle and helped Hantar cinch it to his beast.

Tezhay spotted Igwa standing atop a similar outcropping across a swale and crossed the sodden ground to see him, flushing a flock of birds come to drink and bathe among the seeps. Igwa didn't seem particularly pleased to see him, but Tezhay quickly learned it was nothing personal.

"They are coming," said Igwa.

Tezhay pulled himself up the lumpy, rotten rock.

"Who is—?" And then he shut up. The men coming up the ladder at the cliffs were not mere scouts, they were Crasacs in full assault gear. More ladders had appeared. Crasacs poured up each one of them. "Here? They're attacking here?" Tezhay panicked. "We have to tell Feril."

"Feril knows," said Igwa. "The mirror told him."

Indeed, some of the militia units that Tezhay had just left behind had abandoned their bulwarks and were shifting rightward to cover their flank. The Nalkies of Teo and Idala were also relocating, practically abandoning the left flank as they pivoted wide around Feril's former position.

"That's not all," said Igwa. "Their horsemen have come."

"Where?"

"Behind us. Look to the high hills."

A string of armored cavalry trotted almost lackadaisically along a verdant crease between meadow and mountain, led by a rider with a blue flag – Cuerti or higher leadership. Behind them, a squadron of dismounted Cuasars stood beside their horses as they drank from a rill.

"How did they get past the cliffs?" said Tezhay.

"They're not unbroken," said Igwa. "There are places a horse can pass."

Igwa looked completely unfazed. "Isn't this... a problem?" said Tezhay.

"They're just prodding us," said Igwa. "Trying to make us reveal our positions."

The Crasacs at the cliffs continued to accumulate and form up into the infamous assault blocks that had crushed many a defense during the invasion of Sesei.

A second squadron of Cuasars exploded out of a glen and raced along the shelf above the cliffs. They turned uphill just before the siege ladders, heading straight for the middle of Igwa's deployment.

"W-what's this?" said Tezhay, heart sputtering.

"A test," said Igwa. "Gauging our strength. No worries. We can handle them."

The Cuerti up the hill had paused behind the center of Igwa's position. The flag bearer chopped the solid blue flag down like an axe, raising another with an inverted black triangle. The oncoming Cuasars responded immediately, fanning out along their front.

"Look what cocky bastards," said Tezhay. "Those are officers. That is a mobile command post. Completely exposed. How brazen."

"Not worth chasing," said Igwa. "They see us coming, they'll slip away." He barked an order that caused his riders to burst from the copses and outcrops like startled birds. They flocked obliquely across the Cuasars' line of approach, bands crossing, congealing into two groups bracketing their flanks. A line of dismounted fighters dragging long pikes swarmed through the grass to the edge of a mire that creased the meadow. They wedged the butt ends of the pikes against stone and lay prone.

The Cuerti threw up a square flag and the Cuasars condensed like harried sheep, heading straight for the waiting pikes. Tezhay set the rifle on single fire and chambered a round. He propped the barrel on a ledge and aimed carefully at the Cuerti flag bearer. The rifle cracked, the round disappearing somewhere far across the meadows. The flag did not waver.

"I had him in my sight," said Tezhay. "Maybe it's too far for this weapon?"

Another flag with a diagonal slash appeared and again the Cuasars reacted instantly, turning against one of Igwa's bands, which exposed their rear to the other band, who pounced immediately, charging after the Cuasars while their comrades in the other group broke away circled back up towards the mire, luring the Cuasars into the teeth of their pikes. Several stragglers fell to Cuasar sabers, but the Nalkies in pursuit exacted a greater toll with their swords.

The Cuerti raised a new flag: random speckles over a black bar. The Cuasars broke off their chase and dispersed, retreating back towards the cliffs. Igwa's dismounted pikers and bows remained concealed, preserving their surprise for the next wave.

"Good work," said Tezhay.

Igwa kept looking straight ahead. His cheek twitched. "This is just the start," he said.

Tezhay watched his Nalkies ride back to cover. "Forgive me," he said. "But I don't see how you expect to hold back the Crasacs when they come."

"Help is coming," said Igwa, glancing to his left. Indeed, one of Feril's platoons approached the first knob, with another right behind them. Teo and Idala's troops had just reached the headwall where Feril's third platoon remained to keep an eye on the vale. Tezhay hoped that at least some of his volunteers were among the reinforcements.

High up in the meadows the Cuerti band had splintered. Half of the group, including the flag bearer, edged closer to the rear of Igwa's position, as if daring Igwa to give chase. The rest followed along the roots of the tall mountains, heading for the bands of refugees and exiles making their way to the passes.

Tezhay's face flushed. Those who fled were elderly or infirm or, like the exiles, carried no significant weaponry. They would be all slaughtered. Now he regretted taking that rifle from Miles.

His stomach and his conscience could not let this situation stand.

"I have to leave you," said Tezhay, scrambling down the ledges. "But I will be back." Igwa watched him go, betraying no emotion.

Tezhay saw a horse tethered to a gnarled cedar, but thought better of taking it. It might be Igwa's. He dashed across the swale to the first outcropping where Hantar crouched, chatting with his new Nalki friends.

Tezhay found the mule grazing behind some boulders and undid its tether. As he hauled himself into the saddle, Hantar stood and looked on glum-faced, like a boy watching a thief abscond with his puppy.

"Sorry. I need to borrow him." He dug his heels into the mule's side and galloped away.
Chapter 55: Hip

Clouds slipped away to reveal a beveled peak with a brow grizzled with rime. Seeing the mountain exposed, disturbed Frank. Its nakedness assaulted his senses, as if a flasher had confronted him in a public alley. He saw aggression in its sharp arêtes and blunt, blank facets. He had preferred the peak clothed in mist, mysteries preserved, benignity retained.

Frank's reaction to the mountain disturbed him. It was only a mountain, for Chrissakes! A pretty one, some might say. How long would it be before his mind conjured shurikens from daisies?

They passed through the barrow lands and their hidden corpses and caches. Frank couldn't help thinking how hellish it would be to be entombed in these hills, in this world. Baby goats played atop the mounds, butting heads, chasing in circles.

When they reached the now vacant herders' cottage, Liz stopped for a rest on the porch, and even gave it a quick sweeping with a broom worn to nubs. When it came time to go, she seemed reluctant to leave. Miles pestered everyone onward, manic in his haste.

They left the meadows and barrows for a rockier, steeper landscape. Miles and Misty set a blistering pace. Bimji called ahead constantly to have them hold up so everyone could rest.

Liz never complained, though every step brought a grimace. Teeth gritted, she would plant her good leg to swing the good one around, take a baby step and repeat. Soft bleats of pain from deep in her throat sent spikes jabbing into Frank's heart.

If anyone, Tom was having the hardest time getting up the slopes. He spent much of the climb draped over his sister's shoulder. Frank spelled her from time to time. He acted stoic, but looked terribly pale. He complained of pain and pressure in his gut, signs perhaps of internal bleeding.

Frank began to wonder how they could possibly make it where they needed to go. But he wasn't going to be the one to call off the attempt.

Water trickled through the blades of turf. Tom sank into a soggy bed of tussocks.

"He look okay to you?" Liz whispered to Frank.

"I'm fine, mom," said Tom, annoyed.

"You don't look fine."

"I feel strong, I just... hurt a bit."

"How about you Liz?" said Frank. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy," she said, the skin on her face stretched taut, her jaw set tight.

"They're moving again," said Ellie. Miles and Misty had risen, and were taking tentative steps, staring back at the rest of the clan.

Liz groaned. "We just stopped."

"There is fighting down below," said Bimji, gazing down to the shelf flanking the vale.

"No shit?" said Liz.

Horsemen swarmed and swirled through the grasslands as if performing some sort of equine choreography.

"It begins," said Bimji.

"Begins?" said Liz. "It never fucking ends." She winced and swung her bad hip back onto the trail.

***

The meadows turned rocky and the trail diverged, funneling up towards two passes high on the mountains shoulder, each separated by a minor wedge of a peak. A small band of refugees had already taken the left fork. The portal, according to Tezhay, lay near the higher, narrower pass to the right.

Miles and Misty waited at the juncture. The wind-winnowed strains of Coldplay's Viva la Vida spilled down the slope from Miles' radio.

Tom began to slump and pull away from Frank. Ellie came up, took his arm around her neck, and gave him a boost him. Bimji put a hand on him and tried to help, but he was having enough trouble keeping his own body in motion. His legs were spindly, muscles atrophied from his captivity. His feet, bare because he could not tolerate shoes, were gnarled and lumpy, never healing properly after being broken.

It seemed ironic to Frank that he was among the stronger members of this traveling party. His heart still did the skippy thing it was wont to do of late, but it pumped enough oxygen to his brain and legs, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

Liz's pace began to lag. She paused between strides, feet sinking into the sodden ground, water flowing over her feet.

"Come on Lizzie, keep it going," said Frank. "Think of the salt licorice waiting for you on the other side. I know a candy shop in Foggy Bottom that's got a dozen different varieties. I used to think of you every time I walked past that place."

"Don't even remember... what it tastes like," said Liz. Her foot slid off the side of a stone, throwing her hip askew. She gasped.

"But first I'll take you out for dinner," said Frank. "All of you. We'll go to Filomena's in Georgetown. The best antipasto. Gnocchi with pesto—to die for."

"That's nice." Liz panted. Her gaze collapsed inward.

"And if we ever go back to Ithaca, remember those sundaes we used to get at Purity Ice Cream? The place is still there, believe it or not. It's gotten yuppified, but the ice cream's still the same. Chocolate bittersweet with the dark chocolate ground up into little bits like dust."

"This is it," said Liz. "I can't go any further." She stared up at the stony steep and stony trail rising before them, devoid of vegetation but for wedges of green filling the gullies.

"But you've come this far," said Frank. "We're almost there! Just one more pitch. A steep one, admittedly, but... it's gotta be less than a mile to go to the top of that pass."

"Nuh-uh," said Liz. "My knees are buckling. There's... no way."

"One step at a time," said Bimji. "That is all you need to do. Just one step. Then we worry about next."

"Guys! I'm telling you, this is it. I know my own body and I've pushed it about as far as it can go." She lowered herself slowly down onto a boulder. "I'm just going to sit here and my farm smolder a while, then work my way back down to the cottage."

She shivered. "Forgot how cold it gets up here," said Liz. "It's been years since I've been up this high."

"Well, take a break," said Frank. "No rush. We've got hours still. Tezhay said that it'll be close to sunset before the passage opens."

He sat down on the boulder beside her and slipped his arm around her. It began as a natural gesture, but became self-conscious once he realized what he was doing. Liz didn't balk or even seem to notice. Tom squeezed onto the boulder from the other side. Bimji and Ellie came up behind them and rested their hands on Frank's and Liz's shoulders. Together, they blocked the wind.

"Feels like goddamn rigor mortis setting into my hip," said Liz.

"Now... will you let us carry you?" said Frank.

Liz guffawed. "Who? Half this crew can't carry themselves."

"I'll carry you Liz," said Frank. "On my back. If Ellie can take my satchel—"

"He's serious!" said Liz. "To tell you the truth. I'm kind of relieved not to be going back. I realize I ain't got a farm here anymore, but... this is still my world. What's over there... on the other side... that's lost to me. Don't need it. Don't want it."

Frank like he was shrinking or sinking into the stone. He felt stunned, but not surprised.

"It's just been so long, you don't remember," said Frank. "If you went back you'd realize all the things you miss."

She wasn't even paying attention. Miles' frantically waving arms caught his attention. Frank sighed and looked away.

"Is it true? You can fix her in Ur?" said Bimji in a quiet voice.

"Her hip? Yeah, sure. Well, not me, personally. An orthopedic surgeon. But they do it all the time. These days it's a routine operation. She'll come out of it pain-free—well, eventually—with full mobility. And you know, she might even be covered under my insurance. I never filed a death certificate, so technically, she's still my spouse. She's still listed as a dependent on all my forms. Now you, my man, if you want to get those feet looked after, you're gonna need your own insurance. Blue Cross/Blue Shield might have a problem with this polygamy thing."

"Blue flag," said Bimji.

"No," said Frank. "Blue Cross/Blue Shield. They do insurance. Help pay for doctors' expenses."

"No," said Bimji, his voice edged with alarm. "I see a blue flag. The Cuerti are coming."

***

Six riders bounced along the trail they had just taken through the meadows. Frank was struck by how elegant they looked from afar on their graceful, finely muscled horses. But the sight of them had given Bimji a bad case of the shakes. He paced and wheezed, flustered, his face all sweaty.

PTSD: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Frank surmised. He had once seen practically the same response in a Gulf War Vet walking down the street in DC when a Harley came rumbling around a corner.

"Gotta get going Liz," said Frank, popping up. "We've got trouble coming." He tried helping her to her feet, but she shrugged him off.

"Just ignore them," she said. "They'll pass us by. We're civilians."

"Like they passed by Sinta? Xama?" said Tom.

"That was different," said Liz. "They did that to root out some Nalkies. They're probably just checking us out. If we show them we're harmless, they'll pass us by."

"We need to go!" said Bimji. "Now! Up, up, up! I saw enough of their kind from my cage."

Liz looked up at the vertiginous pass and quailed. "I can't climb that."

"Doesn't matter," said Frank. "We have to get off the trail... get out of their way... at least." He took her arm, and forced her to her feet.

Liz moaned. "This must be what it feels like to be a hundred years old." She looked back at Tom and Ellie, who stood wide-eyed beside the trail. A slow smile crept. "You got him, Ellie?"

"Yup."

"Tom? You doing okay, sweetie?"

"I'm fine mom. Ready to go."

She took a step. "Oh Lordy," she rolled her eyes heavenward.

"The Cuerti, they are coming too fast," said Bimji. "They will catch us!" He fumbled through his satchel. "Children, what do you have for weapons?"

"Never mind," said Liz. "We're not fighting anyone."

"Lizbet, we maybe have no choice." He removed something white and tubular from his bag. Frank had no idea what it was, but he had seen something like it in the cache.

Ellie unlashed her longbows. Tom removed a sling shot from a sack.

"What about Misty or Miles?" said Bimji. The two had stopped partway up the trail to the pass.

"They don't have much," said Ellie. "Maybe some knives."

"Idiots!" said Liz. "Get it into your heads. We're not fighting any damned Cuerti. We act the slightest bit aggressive, they'll take us for Nalkies and cut us down."

"Mistake us?" said Bimji.

"Point is... we've got no chance in a fight. Toss all that crap on the ground. Now!"

"I don't know about this, Liz," said Frank, eyes tracking the riders. "These guys mean us harm."

"I said toss it on the ground, now! Everything. Show me your hands."

Ellie had already complied, tossing her bows and quiver into the grass. Bimji threw a dagger into the pile; Tom, a blocky sword shaped like a machete.

"Don't look at me," said Frank. "All I got is scalpels."

Misty started doubling back down the slope, but Liz waved her back. "Go. Go!" she mouthed. Miles had kept on walking.

They stood and faced the six horsemen. The seventh trailed far behind, riding what appeared to be an injured horse, based on the hitch in its gallop.

Frank had never seen Cuerti mounted before, and they presented a bizarre profile, their flanged and articulated armor merging with the curves of their horses' own armor, as if they were a single beast.

"Show them your hands," said Liz. "Up high, so they can see we pose no threat."

The entire clan obliged.

The Cuerti widened their spacing and slowed to a trot. Sabers sizzled as they slid from scabbards.

"Mercy of Cra!" shouted Liz. She turned to the others. "Say it!"

"Mercy of Cra," everyone repeated, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"I think it worked," said Ellie.

One of the Cuerti pulled a long-handled mace with a faceted ball from his saddle and spurred his horse forward. He yelped something to the others. They spurred their mounts and sprang into action, circling to surround the party.

Bimji ran off up the trail, fumbling with something in his pocket.

"No!" said Liz.

Tom pulled out a sling and stooped for a stone the size of his fist. He came up swinging, let loose, and the stone struck a rider full force in the chest, knocking him askew in his saddle. His saber clanged against the stones as he struggled to hang onto his reins.

Ellie retrieved her bow and retreated behind a cracked boulder, snapping off an arrow that stuck harmlessly into a Cuerti's armor. Frank took Liz by the hand and ran, but her legs were planted and he tumbled, hauling her down as a rider stormed past. A saber came slicing neck-high through the air where she had stood.

Bimji turned and knelt on the trail, fiddling with something silvery and white as three of the riders bore down on him. Tom stood his ground, firing stones with uncanny accuracy, cracking the side of one Cuerti's helmet, breaking another's hand.

"Stay down!" Frank shouted to Liz, and scrambled to retrieve the fallen saber.

"Tom! Look out!" Liz screamed.

The lead Cuerti had circled back on Tom, flail raised high above his head.
Chapter 56: Intervention

The trail turned steep, slanting up the mountain's shoulder. Miles bounded along, pushing the pace. He was anxious to reach the top of the pass, less concerned about who got there with him as long as he had some company and Misty kept up with him just fine. It was the others who kept falling farther behind.

"We'll wait for 'em up at the top," he told her, if only to keep her keeping on.

He hoped that the way back would be obvious, because this Tezhay guy did not give the most detailed instructions. He could only assume it was the same sort of thing that brought him and his Prius to Gi, only in reverse. Did that mean they needed to look for a chalcopyrite spewing fog, or did these portals manifest in other ways?

He let the music pour forth from his radio, not giving a damn about the batteries. Even the FM was coming through now loud and clear, and he had found a station that played some of his favorite bands. Indie rock had always been a source of inspiration for him, never more than now on this hillside.

When they paused to rest, he kept tabs on the battle shaping up below. He could make little sense out of what he saw: blocks of troops maneuvering and countering, abandoning lines, forming new ones, fighters on horseback swerving and whirling, like animate miniatures on a game board. Distance afforded him the luxury of being a detached observer, watching the fighting as it were some kind of abstract choreography.

His phone chimed. It was his mom, again. He picked up.

"Miles! What is going on with you? You promised to call me back."

"Bad service up here, mom," he said. "But it's okay, mom. I'm on my way home."

"Uncle Anton called your work. They told him you haven't shown up for days. Haven't even bothered to call in sick. What gives?"

"It's... complicated. I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

"And when will that be?"

"Don't know exactly," said Miles. "Soon?"

"Why are you so out of breath? What are you doing?"

"I'm... hiking," he said. "I've had some car trouble. It's... totaled."

"Oh my God! Are you okay?

"I wasn't the one driving it. It was stolen. It's a long story, mom."

"I told you never to lend it to your friends. You see what happens? I hope you've called the insurance company already. They'll be needing a police report too, you realize." A pause ensued, filled by a hum. "You did report your accident to the police, didn't you?"

Six riders bedecked with armor, saddles bristling with weapons, burst from among the barrows, homing in with great speed on Lizbet and the others. The battle had suddenly become very real and personal.

"Um, Mom? I gotta go!"

"Miles don't you dare hang up on—"

He flipped the phone shut and flicked off his radio. The sudden silence uncovered wind moaning through the pass above, distant shouts, a lone raptor shrieking, his heart, thudding against his breastbone.

"Gotta pick up the pace, Mist."

"What's wrong?" said Misty. "Are we late?"

She saw him look back and followed his glance, squinting down at the others as they transition from meadows to the rockier ground of the heights.

"Are those... Nalkies?"

Was she nearsighted or merely wishful? It seemed obvious to Miles that the riders pounding up the hill were the sort he had shot at from the cliff-side bunker and that they had violent intentions. But to keep her calm and moving ahead, he did not disabuse her of that idea, letting her believe that they might be friendlies. He wished Liz and the gang the best of luck, but there was nothing he and Misty could do for them.

As the riders closed in on the clan below, Misty stopped dead in the trail, let out a cry of alarm and starting backtracking to the others.

"Misty, no! Don't go down there. We gotta keep running!"

"Those are Cuerti, Miles. They'll all be killed!"

"Can't help them," said Miles. "Gotta save ourselves. Those dudes look badass."

"Damn it Miles, those guys are like ... my family."

"If Tezhay hadn't taken my gun, then ..." A movement below caught his eye. "Look, even Liz wants us to skedaddle. She's waving us on."

"I don't care," said Misty. "We gotta help them."

"With what?" said Miles. "My Swiss Army knife? There's nothing we can do, Come on!"

With reluctance, Misty reversed direction and stumbled after him. Miles took her hand and yanked her up the trail. Her faint sobs twisted something inside of him, but he kept on running.

They reached a place where two ledges diverged, one slanting up to the top of the pass, the other descending into a cirque holding a glassy tarn. They took the high road, running until they were doubled over from lack of breath.

Miles gazed in horror at the scene unfolding below. Misty started to raise her head.

"Don't look," said Miles.

***

Tezhay crouched low, cheek to neck with the straining mule. He rode that poor creature harder than it had probably ever been ridden. The badly fitting saddle flung him from side to side. The beast resisted his urgings and repeatedly tried to buck him.

He lost ground against the surging Cuerti until they slowed to a trot and spread out to stalk the family. Finally, Tezhay was able to close some ground with them.

The family acted submissive, palms in the air, but it was clear from the riders' posture that they would be extending no mercy. He was still too far to get a reasonable shot off with his rifle. There seemed no chance that he would reach them in time for his intervention to make a difference. At most, he could avenge their deaths.

When the Cuerti closed in for the kill, the clan leaped into battle. Some of them, at least, had no intentions of laying down for the slaughter.

Tezhay banged his heels against the mule's ribs, spurring it on. The beast bleated in complaint but mobilized whatever reserves it had left. If only Lizbet and her clan could have stalled a little while longer.

***

The Cuerti had been caught off guard by Tom and Ellie's resistance, but Bimji knew the tide would turn and they would prevail unless he did something drastic. He backpedaled up the trail, dangling a tube of tovex in front of his body, hoping to lure the riders away. He realized that to them, the white cylinder probably did not even resemble a weapon so he gripped the end like a dagger and thrust it at the two Cuerti stalking him.

"The power of Cra, right here in my hands!" he shouted. "This brought down the viaducts of Siklaa." The Cuerti looked at each other. Five came after him, the sixth preoccupied with Tom.

He straightened out the tangled fuse, and readied the fire starter.

"Come closer, pretty boys," he muttered to himself.

The fire starter lit with the first flick of his thumb. He looked towards Lizbet and Ellie as he touched the flame to the fuse. They were screaming at Tom, telling him to run for the ledges. Better that they not see what Bimji was about to do.

The fuse sparked and sizzled. He turned and ran, to put more distance between himself and the family. The tovex was just a fraction of the amount he had set in the gorge to cause that landslide, but it would be enough to take the Cuerti out along with him.

To have been back with Lizbet for a day was one day longer than he had ever expected. He was a lucky man. He took an odd glee in knowing he would save his family, even he would never see them safe, never be sure his suicide gambit worked.

Now he wished he had set the charge with a shorter fuse. A rider swooped past him and cut off his retreat. The fuse still had the length of a couple of hands left to burn. He ducked around the rider's mount to find another one heading him off. It was good that they were clustering so, but he had to keep himself alive a little longer.

He swiveled to evade one saber, into the path of another. It slashed into his upper arm and chest. He fell to his knees, blood gushing from the gaping wound. The severed fuse sputtered on the ground before him, unlinked from the tovex charge that was to have saved his family.

Despair, darker and deeper than the dungeons of the Alar, flooded into his heart.

***

Tom made for a gap between two boulders but the flail-wielder ran him down. His hand shot up to protect himself but the spiked ball blasted through his wrist and struck the back of his head. He crumpled to the ground like a sack.

Liz shrieked. Compelled by forces deep and primal, Frank snatched the wavy-edged saber from the gravel and charged the flail-wielder. The Cuerti seemed surprised to see him coming, but he did not balk. He worked his mount around to face Frank.

Halfway there, Frank reconsidered. He stopped and started backing away. The rider bolted forward and swerved to cut him off, cornering Frank against a ledge. The flail came swinging in a wide, powerful arc. He ducked his head and thrust the saber up to block it. The spiked ball grazed his shoulder and cracked into the ledge, its chain wrapping around the blade on the rebound.

Frank tried to pull away, but the chain tightened and gripped the wavy edge of the blade, plucking it from Frank's grip. He saw the hilt dangling the links and lunged to retrieve it, latching on with both hands. His full weight hanging on the sword yanked the flail and gauntlet from the Cuerti's grasp.

Frank rolled to his feet and took the heavy-handled flail, and swung it upwards with all his might as the Cuerti unsheathed a sword and came back after him. The ball caught the Cuerti full in the face, cracking the flanged cheek guards of his helmet. His mount ran off, out of control, across the meadows, its rider unconscious and flopping in his saddle.

***

Tezhay narrowed his eyes, tunneling in on his targets as the carnage escalated. Tom and Bimji had had already fallen and it looked like Doctor Frank, stumbling about in the open, would be next. He glanced down to prepare his gun. When he looked up, Doctor Frank had somehow acquired a mace, and the rider who had wielded it dangled limp in his saddle as his mount galloped off up the trail.

Tezhay praised whatever miracle had led to this outcome and raised the rifle, before reconsidering. The mule would certainly throw him if he pulled the trigger as he rode, so pulled up and hopped off, a little farther out than he would have liked, but now every second mattered. The other Cuerti had turned to deal with the surviving members of the clan. Lizbet had risen and limped across the killing field to reach Tom. The family's extermination seemed imminent.

The weight of the flail threw Doctor Frank off-balance as he swung it. He completely missed the rider he intended to strike and careened off a boulder, falling to the ground. Ellie continued to shoot arrows though they failed to penetrate the Cuerti's armor. Her shafts accumulated until one of her targets came to resemble a badly plucked chicken. The object of her archery dismounted to go after her on foot among the rocks where she had taken refuge.

Tezhay put the AK on full automatic and raked the space in front of the dismounted rider.

Tugga-tugga-tugga-tug!

Rocks splintered. Bits of armor flew as the bullets tore threw it as if were made of clay. Ellie's pursuer crumpled. The noise caused the other horses to rear, spilling two riders. Frank pounced on one with the flail, striking him square in the breast plate. The rebound nearly sent the spiked ball into his own leg.

Tezhay jogged closer. Ellie pounced one of the fallen Cuerti, whose leg seemed to be broken, and slid her dagger beneath the rim of his helmet.

"Tugga-tug!" He brought down the rider going after Lizbet. The surviving Cuerti, deciding to fight another day, galloped away, weaving evasively as if expecting bullets to follow. Tezhay was tempted to grant their expectation, but decided to conserve his ammo. In his haste he had left his extra bullets back with Hantar.

The wind sighed across the rocks, joining the distance shouts of battle, Lizbet's sobs, and Ellie's wails as they knelt beside Tom.

***

Still in a daze and amazed that he had survived, Frank came up behind Liz. Ellie, in a confused panic, rushed to Bimji's side and let out a cry of dismay. His stomach sank when he saw Tom's condition.

Liz was lifting Tom's head out of the waterlogged sod. "My baby boy!" she cooed.

"Best you didn't move his head," said Frank,

"His head's floating in a damn puddle!"

"Here," said Frank. He pulled off his shirt and folded it into a pillow.

Liz paused, panting. She took it and tucked it gently under Tom's head and smoothed his hair. She wailed when her hand brushed over the angular depression where the mace had dented his skull.

Frank gently nudged Liz aside and bent over Tom, trauma kit tucked under his arm, his mind in triage mode where emotion had no place. Tom bled from his ears. One pupil was dilated larger than the other. He was alive but barely conscious, a low, monotonous moan escaping from his throat.

"Get your kit!" said Liz. "Do something!"

"Not much I can do for him, Liz."

A clear, yellowish fluid, tinged with pink drained from Tom's nose. His eye sockets darkened.

"Liz... I can't. There's nothing to be done."

Frank pulled himself away and went to Bimji, where Ellie sprawled, pressing her wadded scarf into his wounds. Her face was soaked with tears, and she could barely speak through her snuffles.

"They got him good," she said. "I hardly know where to plug him first."

Bimji was conscious, but his pulse was quick and weak. Frank tightened a tourniquet around his arm, which was awash in bright arterial blood. He fed an IV bag into his good arm, hanging it on a scrubby little pine, like some sad ornament on a Christmas tree. Bimji had a gash on his neck as well, but the wound looked worse than it was. He panted heavily. Blood trickled down the corner of Bimji's mouth.

Tezhay came up behind them.

"Thanks," said Frank, glancing up.

"For what?" said Tezhay. "I am too late."

"Yeah, well. We'd all look be in his condition if you hadn't come when you did."

"Misty and the boy?" said Tezhay.

"They got away, up the hill," said Frank.

Liz came rushing over, and dropped to her hands and knees. "Oh Jeez, he looks bad," she said falling down onto her hands and knees. She kissed Bimji's cheek. Bimji's eyes popped open and he smiled.

"Frank, Tom needs help, too." she said. "I think his skull is cracked."

"It sure is," said Frank. "But Liz... He's... he's not..." Frank didn't know what to say or how to say it.

Liz scurried back to Tom's side. "Fucking hell," said Liz, placing her ear gently against Tom's chest. She burst back upright. "He's not breathing. He stopped breathing. Frank, you gotta come here, he needs CPR!"

Frank tore himself away from Bimji's side and walked across the gravel in a daze. Tom lay limp and still. Frank's vision refracted from the wetness welling up in his eyes. His heart plunged with dread.

Liz looked at him, her eyes wide and expectant.

Tom's scalp was soaked with blood that had leaked into the gravel. This could be his boy, their boy, he knelt beside. Their dead boy. But he couldn't let himself be engulfed. Bimji still needed his help.

He looked back to Liz to see that all of the last ditch hope that had been there before had drained out of her face. She knew.

Ellie, meanwhile, had pulled up Bimji's shirt to reveal a neat little puncture wound centered below his sternum. She gasped and went to her mother, burying her face against Liz's shoulder.

The puncture explained the bleeding from Bimji's mouth. There was no hissing or bubbling. It had probably punctured his esophagus or stomach, and not his lungs. It didn't bleed much to the outside, but God knows what was happening internally. Nothing Frank could fix without major surgery. He struggled with how and whether to tell Liz.

Liz settled down beside him, and took Bimji's hand.

"Any chance he...?"

Frank shrugged.

Bimji looked at them. "This one... is a good man, Lizbet," he said. "Go with him. It is his time now... his turn."

"Oh shush, Bimjibrun," said Liz. "We're all gonna rebuilt that farm. All of us."

"Tom...?" said Bimji, stirring, craning to look down the trail to where Tom lay.

"He's gonna be fine," said Liz. "He's... just knocked out."

Bimji relaxed. "That's... good." He closed his eyes.

"I am so sorry," said Tezhay, walking over with one of the Cuerti horses that he had stripped of its identifying armor. "But... they need me down there. The battle commences."

"Go on, Tezhay," said Frank. "Give 'em hell. Good luck."

Tezhay lingered, staring.

"What? What is it?" said Frank.

"You still have time... to cross," said Tezhay.

Frank's face hardened. He gave his head a brisk shake and went back to tending Bimji's wounds.

***

Frank repaired the severed artery in Bimji's shoulder. He did a half-assed job, but got it stopped enough to clot. He loosened the tourniquet slightly and sutured the wound. He had Ellie replace the IV bag but worried that Bimji was losing blood too fast from his stomach wound to maintain a viable blood pressure. His fears were confirmed when Bimji collapsed into shock before he even got the laceration closed.

At that point, anything Frank did for him was just for show, but he went through the motions, tracking his vital signs, mopping the seepage from the wads of gauze covering his stomach wound.

Bimji passed with Ellie and Liz nestled into either shoulder, sobbing. Frank got up and paced, between his twin failures. The sounds of battle carried up the hillside. He glanced repeatedly to make sure no more of the damned Cuerti would be visiting them.

Tom and Misty had climbed out of view up the trail. The mule Tezhay had ridden stood tethered to a dead tree, grazing on sedges.

Frank sat down on a protruding rib of stone beside Tom's body and lowered his head into his hands. He felt vacant, a cicada husk, without aspirations, prospects or purpose.

He studied Tom's waxy features closely. That nose. It wasn't Frank's or Liz's exactly, but he had seen it before on someone in his family, or on someone he knew.

"You should go Frank," said Liz. "Don't let us stop you. Go on, and go home."

"What?" said Frank, raising his head slowly.

"It was nice seeing you. Really, it was. But you should go."

"I ain't going nowhere," said Frank. "I got nowhere to go."

"Sounded to me like you've got a life back there. Your... fancy restaurants. Your... whatever."

"I don't need that shit," said Frank. "I just... wanted it... for you."

Liz looked back at him in a tear-drenched fog, struggling to compose herself. Ellie lay curled in the grass, arm draped around her dead father.

"You'll... help us, then?" she said. "Get them off the trail, someplace quiet, out of sight?"

"Of course," said Frank.

Liz rose up and wiped her face on her blouse. "Kind of Mr. Tezhay to leave that mule for us. We'll have to make a skid. Take them to... the... the... barrows." She teared up again, fought to control it but lost the battle and collapsed to her knees, wailing.

Frank went to her, knelt down and took her into his arms, and spilled his own tears in spasms emanating from deep within his gut.

"Why are you crying so?" said Liz, her tone puzzled.

"You're... my wife, and you hurt," said Frank. "Bimji... was my spouse-brother. And Tom was... Tom..." He couldn't say it.

She clutched and released the fabric of his jacket sleeve in a slow rhythm.

"I need to know," blurted Frank. "Is he my son?"

"What?" She seemed startled by the question.

"You need to tell me. Tom... is he my son?"

"What difference does it make?" said Liz, her voice warbling, her eyes focused on a spot of air in front of Frank's face, a spot that might as well have been a million light years away.

"I need to know," said Frank. "It would help me... I would know how to feel... exactly."

Liz waited till the tremors subsided in her chest, for the calm between the aftershocks.

"He's..." Her gaze remained fixed on that distant place. "Leo's."

Frank stared past her, at the shadows lengthening behind the barrows. If he had presumed the revelation would make him feel any better, then he was dead wrong.
Chapter 57: The Pass

Misty was a weeping, babbling mess. Miles had to cajole and drag her up the trail. She missed seeing the blow that took down Tom, but freaked when she witnessed that sword cut Bimji to the turf. She only regained her composure when they passed a hump in the slope that shielded the massacre from view.

Out of nowhere, AK fire cut the silence. "See Mist? Someone came to help them. Someone with a gun. Maybe they're okay."

"They're most definitely not okay!" said Misty. "I saw Bimji get stabbed."

"Frank's a doctor," said Miles. "If anyone's hurt, he'll take care of them. You saw what he did for Tom."

"Bimji... he got cut bad. And there was someone else layin' there. I couldn't tell who."

"Not much we can do about it," said Miles.

"We can go back," said Misty.

"There's no time. This thing will be opening soon. You do want to go home, don't you?"

"I don't know anymore," said Misty. "I guess."

"Oh, come on, Mist. The others... they'll catch up with us." Her eyes flickered. He could see that she thought that was a bunch of hooey. "And if not, they can pass the next time this thing opens. It's not like this is a one shot deal."

He got her going, playing on the fear that whatever happened to the family could happen to them if they didn't keep moving. Not the most comforting tact, but it did the trick.

She collapsed to her knees when they reached the top of the pass, gazing forlornly back into the valley. Miles' leg muscles felt as inert as sacks of sand. He lowered himself onto a step of brown basalt, capping a layer of lighter-colored stone.

He checked his phone. The display showed five solid bars of reception, but the battery was on its last legs.

Miles sighed. "Should have kept it off more." He powered it down.

A stubby spike of a mountain separated the two lobes of the pass. They rested atop a flat space about the size of a baseball diamond that sloped down to merge with the lower lobe. The cliffs to the right led down to the cirque and its tarn.

Miles looked askance at the cliff. "They've got to be kidding us. It's supposed to be between the lake and this pass. But look at the size of that drop. What is that... like a thousand feet?"

"Don't be silly," said Misty. "It can't be more than a hundred."

"Whatever you say."

"What's this thing supposed to look like?" said Misty, mustering minimal enthusiasm.

"Um... I don't know... a rock."

"I see plenty of those around here."

Miles smirked. "If it's anything like mine, it's a special kind of rock. A chalcopyrite. The one I had was swirling with colors. I mean like purple and turquoise and splashes of gold."

"You owned one of these?"

"I did... at one time."

"Don't see anything like that here," said Misty, looking about.

"No, because it's probably on the fucking side of that cliff," said Miles. "According to Tezhay."

"So... we need to climb down?" said Misty.

"Um." Miles looked down and blanched. The cliff stepped down a series of ledges, and then plunged nearly vertically to the tarn below. He gasped for breath. "Jeezus! Why'd they have to go and stick it down there?"

"What's wrong?" said Misty.

"Nothing. This is just... really high up."

"I can climb it," said Misty. "No problem."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. No big deal."

"Careful, though. Looks kind of... exposed."

Misty scrunched her nose. "Oh, it's not that bad." She worked her way down the knobs and chinks of the first ledge.

"If you find it, maybe you can bring up here," said Miles.

Misty paused and scrunched her face. "Is it that portable?"

"Mine was," said Miles. "I mean, it should be just a rock... when it's not smoking."

"Smoking?"

"Well, more like fog. A cold fog."

"Okay," she said, sounding unsure. She paused on the first ledge and looked up. Something shifted in her face, a subtle improvement of mood. "If it's just a rock... maybe we can bring it down to Liz and those guys. Right?"

"I mean, we could," said Miles. "If..."

"If what?"

Miles couldn't bring himself to tell her that they might all be lying in a bloody heap at the base of the mountain, but she intuited what he was thinking.

"You think they might not be... alive?"

"Dunno," said Miles. "But we can try... um, what you suggested."

Misty continued down to the next ledge. A blast of wind funneling through the pass riffled Miles' shirt and flapped the cuffs of his trousers. He jammed his hands in his pockets and drew his elbows in tight.

Hooves clacked against stone. A rider appeared on the trail below, looking a bit wobbly in his saddle. His helmet was cracked and his face was smeared with blood.

Miles fell to his knees and leaned over the edge of the drop, projecting a whisper. "Misty, there's someone coming. I think it's one of those guys."

"One of what guys?"

"Those blue riders. He looks... hurt."

"Good," she said, eyes pinching. "Hurt him some more, will ya?"

"He's... coming this way."

"Want me come up?"

"No. Stay down. I don't think he sees me."

Miles sank lower, belly to the ground below a step in the brownish stone that capped the cliffs. The rider pulled a metal canteen from his saddle and swished some water in his mouth and spat it out. He rinsed the blood from his eyes. His armor looked fancier and bulkier than that of the men he and Tom had fought from Liz's cliff.

Misty called up, but Miles couldn't make out what she had said.

"Shush," he hissed back at her. "He's closeby."

"What?" she said, louder.

"Don't yell!" The blue rider's gaze snapped in his direction. He had been spotted.

"Oh shit." He backed away and lowered himself partway down the first ledge.

"There's something here," said Misty. "Like a bulge in the air, and I see trees inside. It's happening!"

"Go!" said Miles. "Go through it!"

"I... can't," said Misty. "It's nudging me away."

"That means it's not ready. It should suck you right it in when it really opens up."

The rider trotted towards him warily, as if anticipating an ambush.

Miles forced himself to look down. Misty had climbed down farther than he could imagine himself going, clinging to the side of a vertical face. A bubble of mist, confined as if by glass protruded from the cliff face like a snow globe. The ghosts of baby pines hovered within. She sidled closer to the edge of the bubble and extended her hand to touch it.

"Wait... it's starting to pull," she said. "It's strong. Real strong."

Metal-clad hooves skittered on stone. The blue rider approached in a rush, pulling up abruptly upon noticing the precipice. His horse skidded, showering Miles with pebbles. He shouted something sharp and guttural, his words like projectiles. He dismounted and pulled a crossbow from a sheath attached to his horse's armor and pointed it at Miles.

Miles flinched and lost his grip. He slid down to the first ledge, and rolled, picking up momentum on the beveled shelf.

"I can't hold back," said Misty. "It's sucking me in... it's—" A sound like a leaping lunker of a bass splashing back into a lake swallowed Misty's voice.

Miles tumbled over the edge and began to plunge through open air. Heaps of toothy boulders lined the shore of the tarn below him. The blue rider clicked the release of his crossbow.
Chapter 58: Relief

As the six Crasacs wound their way slowly up the side of the bluff, Canu readied a stone in the leather pocket of his sling.

"We can ambush them," said Vul. "Whittle them down with our crossbows and then take them on with swords."

"Don't be ludicrous," said Par. "Two against six is... terrible odds."

"Three," Canu called down. "You forgot me."

Pari threw a dismissive glance. "You don't count, stuck up there on your perch."

"What else can we do?" said Vul. "We've no place to run."

"We hide," said Pari, scrambling onto a stack of fallen basaltic columns. "Under here."

Vul relented. Crossbows strung, they retreated deep within the boulder caves to wait for the first Crasac to poke his head in the wrong hole.

The Crasacs topped the ridge. Canu lay as low as a man atop a towering pinnacle can lay, watching them swarm across the rubble, wishing he had brought a bow with him, something more potent than his pathetic sling. He fully expected to watch his friends be ferreted out like rats, and then it would be his turn to be harried and besieged.

All six knelt in unison before the pinnacle, pressing forehead to stone in prayer to this natural, phallic manifestation of Cra. They didn't come to fight, they came to worship.

The sight made Canu giggle. To him it looked like they were praying to him, Canuchariol. A less humble man might have risen up and given these Crasacs a bow. Canu was sorely tempted rise and lower his trousers to them.

But he showed better judgment than usual, melding his body against a groove of stone, and waiting until the Crasacs rose to their feet and descended to the meadow where the siege ladders continued to disgorge a steady flow of combatants.

The enemy flowed around the pinnacle like a stream around a boulder. The forces were not yet fully engaged, as they continued to maneuver. But while the militia and the Nalkies had all of their pieces on the game board, the Venep'o continued to add units until what had seemed a stand-off was looking more and more like a mismatch.

Vul and Pari remained in hiding long after the worshiping Crasacs had gone. Canu hurled a rock down to get their attention and let them know that all was clear. He almost struck Vul with the second stone when the first failed to generate a response.

Vul and Pari came back to the pillar and ensconced themselves within the fluted wall where they would be less likely to be spotted by someone on the meadows. Pari had tucked the mirror away. To use it now, surrounded by enemy would be suicide.

"Why don't you get down from there?" said Pari. "Before you slip and fall."

"I think... I'll stay," said Canu.

He knew the Venep'o would eventually come to mop them up. Pari and Vul could opt to be taken prisoner if they wanted, if the Crasacs even bothered to take prisoners, but Canu had other plans.

"Then tell us what's happening, at least," said Vul. "We can't tell from down here. It's all chaos."

Canu scanned the battlefield from the siege ladders to the enemy scouts negotiating the roots of the mountains. High above the fray, he had a view of the battle that any general would kill for.

He noticed a small party standing apart from the Crasac assault blocks that were forming up in the meadows. It was obviously a command center with Cuerti guards and arrays of flags and mirrors for signaling. One of the signal operators looked too familiar.

"Hoho! It's the old man. The Mercomar master. I see he's landed on his feet."

"Rabelmani?" said Vul. "You see him?"

"Has to be him," said Canu. "I recognize that slouch." He pulled out his sling and whipped a stone in his directions, but the wind swallowed it and he lost it in the void. It splatted harmlessly in the sodden grass.

Three blocks of Crasacs began to march. "Oh! They're... attacking!"

"Who?" said Vul.

"Who else?"

Three squarish formations of Crasac pikes and swords advanced up the slopes toward the juncture of Feril and Idala's repositioned troops and a pair of outcroppings that anchored one of Igwa's left flank. From sheer numerical superiority it seemed they might smash straight through the lines, but an accurate rain of arrows combined with the thunder of four Urep'o weapons decimated their front ranks and they peeled back to reassemble their formation and make way for a second wave forming up behind them.

Meanwhile, several companies of light assault troops had formed up in the vale and swarmed towards the gullies, heading for the bulwarks that Feril's troops had largely abandoned in support of Igwa. To Canu, they looked like a human avalanche sluicing uphill, until an explosion went off atop the headwall and a real landslide came tumbling down into them, revealing the power of stone over flesh.

A second wave of Crasacs came at the militia, again in three tightly coordinated blocks. The arrows seemed sparser this time, the fire from the Urep'o weapons lighter. Perhaps ammunition was low, or Feril had ordered them to conserve what they had, but the result was contact between the Crasacs and militia lines and hand-to-hand combat. Nalkies from Idala and Teo's group came rushing forward in support from a secondary line and again the Crasacs were forced back.

Igwa's force held its own across the meadows, but unlike the plodding collisions of Crasac blocks against lines of militia, their battle played out in swirls and eddies across the grassland, riders converging to beat back breakthroughs by Cuerti and Cuasar horsemen.

Attrition was now taking its toll. As a third wave of Crasacs formed up in the lower meadows, it seemed inevitable that the sheer bulk of the Crasac force would prevail. The Crasacs showed no sign of letting off their pressure, continuing to send fighters up the ladders on the cliff face. Eventually, their sheer numbers would prevail.

Indeed, a concerted attack on all fronts would easily overwhelm his comrades. But something kept the Venep'o timid, fear perhaps of what other weapons or devilment the militia and Nalkies were holding in reserve. Sooner or later they would figure out that they had seen all of the Urep'o tricks they were going to see.

Canu wondered how much time such a plummet would give him to bid goodbye to the world. A ten count, maybe?

And what images would fill his mind's eye on the way down? The old thatched house where his grandmother raised him? The friends he lost in battle? Ara's face aglow in the street lamps of Greymore?

It would certainly be an exhilarating way to go. He had always envied birds their ability to fly. Crossing portals gave him a taste of that sensation, but all that squeezing deprived it of the freedom a leap would provide. He knew the end would be brutal, but quick. In a blink it would all be over.

Canu heard the crunch and tinkle of loose stone. He crawled forward on elbows and knees and poked his head over the edge. Wind blasted his hair into his eyes but he could see a dozen or more Crasacs winding their way up the talus slope alongside the pinnacle, crossbows out and ready, swords at their hips.

Canu scrambled back across the summit a bit too hastily. He slipped on the bevel, and landed hard, digging his fingernails into the rough stone to arrest his slide.

"I see Crasacs rounding the shoulder!"

Vul looked up. "How many?"

"Lots more than last time, and these blokes don't look like they've come to pray."

Vul and Pari shared words with each other out of Canu's earshot. Pari looked upset about something.

"Quit squabbling and go hide!" said Canu. "They'll be up here in a wink."

"Pari's staying," he said. "But I'm making a run for the lines. If they go after me, maybe they'll ignore the both of you."

And so it began.

Canu saw how they would all meet their ends. Vul would be the first to fall, riddled with crossbow shafts or run down and impaled by lancers. Canu would go next, even though Pari was more vulnerable and accessible to the approaching Crasacs. Problem was, he didn't have the stomach or the heart to watch Pari's demise. The Venep'o took offense to the Sesep'o practice of granting equal footing to women warriors. They tended to express their distastes via rape and torture, not necessarily in that order. Canu would be taking that leap sooner than he wanted.

The veins in his temples throbbed. Suddenly, he found it hard to breathe. Morbid musings seemed much more glamorous when they were only musings. He had hoped to have more hours or days to live than the way things were shaping up.

A powerful horn sounded, deep and low, from somewhere by the river, repeating in bursts of three sonorous groans.

"What's happening?" said Vul.

"It's a steam horn," said Canu. He knew them from the plains of Ubabaor from the time of the siege. The Venep'o generals used them to coordinate major advances and retreats.

"We know that," said Vul. "Why does it blow?"

He crawled back across the summit.

The approaching band of Crasacs had stopped and turned and were staring at the source of the sound. Their leader seemed to waffle, before skidding down the scree on his heels, beckoning his fighters to follow him back towards the cliff and the ladders.

Behind him, the same dynamic played out on a larger scale across the meadows. The Crasac formations broke off their attack and disengaged with lines of defenders that seemed about to break. They too, made for the ladders, while their comrades to the rear covered their retreat.

"Canu! Tell us what's happening!" bellowed Vul.

Canu crept back to the other edge. "They're going away," he said. "They're climbing back down the ladders."

"But why?"

He rose up, spreading his arms for balance and leaning into the wind. He looked towards the river. Like before, he saw troops in formation moving downstream, even more troops than before.

"There's something going on by the river," said Canu. "Columns. Coming from Xama... or Maora."

"Reinforcements?" said Vul. "Crasacs from Maora garrison?"

But Canu could see a column moving towards Maora as well, barricading the road and securing the flank.

"These aren't Crasacs or Cuerti," said Canu. "It's an entire army... of friendlies."

"Whose Army?" said Pari.

"Ara's," said Canu, rising to his feet.

A ripping wind made his shirt flap and flutter like a sail. He stood erect atop the pinnacle with his arms outstretched, overcome with a powerful urge to hover with the hawks that had come to circle the battlefield. His legs stayed rooted to stone, but his heart, unbound, took the leap and soared.

Chapter 59: Concord

Miles splashed down hard in a forested fen creeping with sphagnum and skunk cabbage. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He lay stunned, until the chill seeping into the small of his back jolted him to his feet. He staggered out from under a refractive dome into crisp and crystalline air. The tug of the portal eased.

He staggered, spitting out water and bits of decayed leaf tasting of mud and mushroom.

"Misty?"

A black-fletched crossbow bolt floated in water like over-brewed tea. His eyes wandered through a canopy of pines, pink-rimmed clouds and the setting sun.

Misty waddled from behind a tree, calf deep in muck. Blood seeped from scratches down the front of her cheek. Twigs poked from her hair.

"Think it worked?" she said.

"'Course it did," said Miles. "Did you not feel it?"

"But this place... it looks just like Gi."

"Not even close," said Miles. "I mean look around you, look at these... plants." A succulent shrub of the sort that grew in the gullies above Lizbet's farm contradicted his premise and stalled him momentarily. His gaze fixed on the tiered branches and fine needles of a familiar tree. He waded over and rapped his knuckles on its trunk. "See that? It's a white pine. Only grows in East Coast America."

"What's that thing behind you?" said Misty, pointing to a grassy and unnaturally steep embankment rising behind them.

"Dunno," said Miles. "A dam, maybe?"

The pocket of distorted air subsided, but water continued to bubble and churn

around the submerged stone. "We should mark this place," said Misty.

"What the hell for?" said Miles.

"In case we need to find it again... to go back."

"Why the fuck would we want to do that?"

"You might not care Miles, but I've got friends back there. F-f-family." She touched the veil that had slipped down her neck like a bandanna.

"Oh, that's right. You're married, I forgot," said Miles.

Misty shook her head and sighed. "You're being an ass."

"What? What did I say?"

Misty snapped off a silvery, dead bough from the underside of a pine and jabbed it into the muck beside the source of the bubbling. She took off her veil and tied it to the tip so it flapped like a flag.

Miles grabbed her by the hand. "C'mon. Let's get out of this damn swamp before it gets dark and figure out where the hell we are. Next phone I get is gonna have GPS and 3G. I'm done with old school." They slogged over to the embankment. Misty kept glancing back at the stick, her face knotted with concern.

"We should leave a note," she said. "Tell them where to find us."

"Find us? But we don't even know where the fuck we are."

"We'll figure it out," said Misty. "How about we put down your address?"

"Why not yours?"

"Because I don't have one." Misty glared and stared him down. He sighed and took off his pack, fishing around for his notebook and a waterproof Sharpie. He wrote down his cell number, handed it to Misty and sat on the embankment, laying back in the grass. "I'd prefer we not give out my address, if you don't mind."

"Okay," said Misty. "I just hope Liz knows how to use a phone."

The slope faced southwest and caught the last of the evening sun. The red maples were starting to turn red about their veins. It sure felt to him like late September in New England.

The ground began to rumble.

"What's that shaking?" said Misty, alarmed.

"Dunno, earthqu—?" A passenger train roared over the top of the embankment. Silver carriages, with a wide stripe of purple with yellow trim hemming the windows. Miles gaze went straight to the stout, black 'T' surrounded by a black circle.

"Heh! Fucking MBTA," he said.

"What does that mean?" said Misty.

"Means we're in Boston," said Miles, beaming. "Somewhere way out in the 'burbs, I imagine." He did a celebratory jig and pecked her on the cheek. "Welcome home, Mist!"

Misty looked back at the last vestiges of the portal: a gentle boil, above which spun a tiny vortex of mist. The longing lingering in her eyes longing deflated Miles' ebullience.

"Come on, Mist. Let's go find some pizza."
Chapter 60: The March

Seor never expected that Daraken's little army would encounter Venep'o forces so soon after leaving the marshes, but they did not back away, pouncing on the Venep'o formations with a vigor and discipline instilled through months of close order drill in the marshes.

She also never anticipated that their enemy would put up so little resistance. The mere arrival of the militias into the valley had been enough to prompt the Alar or his emissaries to sound their stream horns and retreat.

As they over-ran the trailing companies of Crasacs, Daraken's army learned that these were not top echelon troops that they were facing. The Alar's best fighters had been engaged in the heights when the militias poured out of the forest. The units milling about the beet fields were manned by reserves newly arrived from Venen, inexperienced in battle, hardly more than children. But Daraken had been more than happy to exploit the gift of an unprepared enemy presenting an unprotected flank.

For now, the Venep'o had retreated back behind their barricades on the outskirts of Raacevo. More fighting would come, undoubtedly. Defeat was never tolerated or ignored in the vengeful dominion of Cra. But word had come that the Nalkies were rising in the West, and that the Second Cadre was more than a myth. The Alar, perhaps, had two fronts to worry about. For the time being, however, all was finished but the mending.

Fighters darted across the fields to recover fallen comrades and foes alike, sorting out the dead and shuttling the wounded forward to an aid station operating from a burned out village. That's where the healers had gone so that's where they were heading with Ara.

Her litter bearers took care not to jar her on the potholed road, not that Ara would have noticed. A healer had given her a strong potion to ease her pain that kept her drifting in and out of consciousness.

At times, Seor felt like climbing into a litter herself and having some of that potion, but she persevered, resting when she needed on the odd foot bridge or fence rail.

Esayos had assigned an honor guard to accompany Seor and Ara into the valley, but Seor, feeling stronger than she had in some time, chose to walk ahead of them, unescorted. She mingled with the fighters protecting a supply train that had left the marshes with half a dozen sparsely provisioned carts and had since been augmented by a score of Venep'o carriages brimming with foodstuffs.

A young woman spied on her from behind a tree, part of the honor guard felt it was their duty to shadow and pester her.

"Go away!" she said. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Just wanted a glimpse of you," said the girl. "They say you led the counterforce. Is that true?"

"Counterforce?" said Seor, flabbergasted. "What counterforce? I am nobody special, not at all. Just a scout in the Suul militia."

The girl smirked. "They told me you would say that."

"Listen," said Seor. "If anyone here is the counterforce, it is you all on this road here. You are the real counterforce."

Based on the gleam of her smile, the girl seemed to like that idea.

"Heaven help us if we don't have any allies in Sesei," said Seor. "If the Nalkies of Gi are our only friends."

"Once Sesei learns what has been done in our name, we will have their full support," said the girl.

"I wish I had your faith," said Seor.

She paused to let the litter bearers catch up. Ara lay unconscious, but the color in her complexion encouraged Seor. It was a favorable sign, though she knew Ara's battle for life had just begun. Seor knew from sad experience that many battlefield injuries claimed their victims weeks after the initial damage had been wrought, as they succumbed to gangrene and fever.

She walked beside them into Sinta, passing Venep'o corpses marred by holes and craters that only an Urep'o weapon could cause. Some bodies were smeared with bright blotches of paint, in primary colors, a source of great puzzlement and speculation to all who passed.

Esayos saw her pass and jogged to catch up.

"You made it!" he said.

"Where's Daraken?" said Seor.

"He's meeting up with the other forces up in the hills. He's left me to set up the defense line."

"Other forces?" said Seor, surprised.

"Nalkies mostly," said Esayos. "Plus the remnants of our missing company. We're planning to send a raid against the Maora garrison to extinguish any threat to our rear. We're building fortifications along a rib of bedrock and forest just downstream. Rather precarious, so close to Raacevo but I don't think the Alar dares challenge us with the western Nalkies nipping at his heels... not to mention... Verden under siege. Things look quite promising."

It all left Seor feeling rather breathless. She had to lean against a carriage for support. "Never thought I'd see the day," she said.

Esayos excused himself to return to supervising the restoration of Sinta. Fighters bustled all around them, repairing half-collapsed farmhouses, raising new barns. Some bathed in a gushing stream, finally ridding themselves of the stink of the marshes.

Seor knew this place well from better times when she and her crew had solicited food from farmers during their quest for the first cadre. It had been one of the friendlier places they had visited, risky due to its location along the main road between Raacevo and Maora, but practically devoid of Polus and other Sinkor converts. Sinta's residents seemed delightfully hostile to every aspect of the Venep'o occupation, which might explain why it now lay in ruins.

Ara groaned from her litter, as her bearers negotiated a rough patch pocked with dried hoof prints. Seor glanced over to see Ara's lids quivering open into puffy slits, her lashes crusted. Seor removed her head cloth and dampened it in a trickle that ran beside the road, and wiped her face.

"Where are we?" Ara rasped.

"Sinta," said Seor.

"Where?"

"It's a village, or what remains of one. Half a day's walk from Raacevo."

Ara gripped the sides of her litter. "What about Ingar?"

"Back in the marshes with a few loyalists. He's badly hurt. Even worse off than you, I suspect. Daraken's leading the force now."

"Oh my," said Ara. "I thought it was all a dream. This potion makes one dream, you know?"

"I know," said Seor, rinsing her cloth in the runnel.

Ara took a deep breath and winced. "I dreamt I was back in Ur," she said. "In Vermont, skipping stones on a vast lake. One stone kept hopping on and on, all the way to the other side." She turned onto her side and grimaced.

"You're hurting," said Seor. "I'll see if we can scrounge you some more of that pain potion."

"Not yet," said Ara. "I want to be alert. I want to see... all the green things growing. Everything looks so bright. So pretty. Is it the potion doing this to me?"

Seor shrugged. "Closeness to death opens places in our mind long shut. It's like returning to childhood."

"Am... I going to die?" said Ara.

"They tell me there are healers just ahead," said Seor. "We'll get you some help soon."

As they rounded a curve, Seor paused, dumbstruck by a patch of red just off the road ahead. "Oh my! Will you look at that?"

"What's wrong?" said Ara.

"It's an Urep'o vehicle. Just like the one we exiled."

Ara struggled to rise up on her elbows. She gasped. "That's... Canu's car." She groaned and lay back down.

"What do you mean, 'Canu's'?"

"He was driving it last I saw him," said Ara, tears welling up. "I can't believe he went and attacked a Venep'o war wagon."

"What's not to believe?" muttered Seor.

"Bring me closer," said Ara. "I want to see." The litter-bearers lifted her up and carried her to the edge of the road beside the red vehicle. They lowered her again and she stared, anguished at the pikes impaling the window glass, the blood smearing the seats.

"Did they find him? Was his body inside?" said Ara.

"I don't know," said Seor. "I'm seeing it for the first time with you."

"I'm feeling a bit dizzy," said Ara. "Please. Lay me down." The litter-bearers deposited her on the soft, plowed earth beside the red vehicle.

Seor looked away from the wreckage. They had come to the edge of Sinta. A smaller road angled off to the left towards the heights. At this intersection, the militia had repaired a small barn, the only structure in Sinta left intact, probably because some Venep'o officer was using it to shelter from the rain.

The militias had organized it into an aid station. A line of walking wounded waited outside while healers within tended to the more seriously hurt.

Seor was startled to find herself staring at a pair of familiar faces. Vul and Pari looked back at her with wrinkled brows, perhaps puzzling over why this odd, frail woman was gawking at them. Vul's eyes popped as if he had spotted a six-legged goat with wings. Pari dropped an armload of bandage cloth and started running.

"Seor! Is it possible?"

"I suppose it is," said Seor as Pari flew into her arms, almost knocking her down.

"Easy," said Seor. "I'm a bit feeble these days."

"Feeble? There's practically nothing left to you but bones. But how did you even get here? We destroyed that stone."

"There are others," she said, as Vul came up and embraced her gently.

"Oh, go on and just ignore me," Ara spoke at their feet.

Pari's eyes widened and she looked at Vul. "Ara?" they said, simultaneously. "They dropped to her knees beside the litter. What happened to you?"

"Cadre."

"This rescue, it was your doing, wasn't it?" said Vul.

"Not really," said Ara. "I was just... a catalyst."

An older Urep'o man, stocky with stout legs spotted Ara's litter and came bustling down with a bulging green bag slung over his shoulder. A young woman, who looked half Urep'o herself, followed him. The man seemed startled to hear Ara speak his own language back to him. He checked Ara's wrapping, fished into his pack and removed a pair of metal-foil packets.

"Who is this man?" said Pari, miffed. "What is he doing?"

"He's a healer," said Ara.

Pari snatched the packets away before Ara could reach them. The man's young assistant snatched them back from Pari and handed them to Ara. "Don't worry," said the assistant, in Giep'o. "This is good medicine. One will prevent the festering and other will ease the pain. Please, make sure she takes them."

The Urep'o healer moved on down to the next litter.

"Is this man your father?" Seor asked the girl.

"Yes," she said, after a reflective pause "He's... one... of my fathers." She took his arm and moved on down the line of casualties.

Ara was already opening one of the foil packs. Pari looked on, wrinkling her nose, skeptical.

"Water, please?" said Ara.

***

Ara had no qualms about taking the Urep'o doctor's medicine. She knew the stuff worked, unlike half of the traditional Giep'o pharmacopeia which seemed to cause more headaches than they cured.

As she sipped the water Pari had cupped from a streamlet, a figure emerged from the barn shifting jauntily from side to side, hyperkinetic, almost dancing.

Canu.

Ara almost rolled off the litter into the dirt. She tried to rise, but the pain in her ribs kept her down like a tether. She tried calling to him, but her mouth could not make words.

There was no need. He came running when he spotted Seor. But when he noticed Ara, he plunged down onto his knees and skidded in the dirt, tossing clumps of loam onto her litter.

"Oh my God. You're back!" said Canu, leaning down to give her a hug that was a little bit too vigorous for her health. "Sorry. I just... are you okay?"

"Nothing a little Urep'o medicine can't cure," said Ara. Her eyes flitted up to Seor. "I see you're ever observant, as usual."

"What do you mean?" said Canu.

"Notice someone familiar standing near you?" said Ara. "Someone famous?"

"Famous?" Canu looked puzzled, as his gaze went to Seor's legs and drifted upward.

"Mercy of Cra!" he said. "Is that really you?"

"Since when did you convert Sinkor?" said Seor.

"If it was Cra who brought you both back to me, I'll become a Polu." Canu took Seor in his arms and squeezed.

"Take care you don't crush her," said Vul, putting a hand on him.

Tears poured down Canu's face, but he was laughing.

Ara picked up a stick and whacked Canu in the shins.

"Ow! What's that for?"

"When I saw that car," said Ara. "I thought for sure you had finally gone and got yourself killed."

"Me? Dead? Never!"

Ara patted his foot. "You need to slow down, go easy through life, Canu. These times are too dangerous for those who rush. You've been lucky, but one of these days, your recklessness is going to catch up with you."

"Ah, I've been hearing that for years. I'm too slippery to die. Old death's not quick enough to catch me."

"Promise me," said Ara, her voice catching in her throat. "Promise me you'll take better care."

A genuine puzzlement entered Canu's brown eyes, deriving not from her words but her disposition. As he leaned in, Ara noticed for the first time the ring of gold surrounding his pupils. How could she have not noticed such a feature before? It was as if she were seeing this man completely anew. In return, Canu studied her eyes as if she held the secrets of the universe locked away behind them.
Chapter 61: Chicken Bus

The endless marshes flashed their inscrutable codes at the speeding bus. Tezhay sat in the very front, just behind the driver. The bus was packed with people heading from the Provinces to Belize City for Baron Bliss Day and its attendant festivals and regattas.

Tezhay had tried to wash and mend his clothes as much as possible but the residual silt and blood on his tattered homespun made him look like some crazy jungle hermit. Even though the bus was full, no one shared his seat.

No matter, he thought. More room for him and his belongings. He reached into his bulging sack and plucked a string of the drone mandolin that Lizbet and Ellie have gifted him after Tom's burial.

There was not much else in the sack this time, but some fruit he had purchased along the roadside near Rio Frio. He feared Marizelle and Gabrielle would be terribly disappointed that he was coming home without the usual gifts.

As the bus rose out of the marshes into the low hills where Mennonites tended orchards, Tezhay leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder.

"My special stop is coming up, okay?" Tezhay handed him a ten dollar note. It probably wasn't even necessary, but it was good insurance against a grumpy driver.

"Where do you want to get out, my friend?" said the driver.

"Where the fruit trees end and you can see down to the city and ocean."

"No problem, mon."

Where lime trees met shanties, the bus veered off the road and the bus door accordioned open. Tezhay gathered his bag and stepped out into the torpid air.

"Thank you," said Tezhay. "Have good day."

His heart thumped with anticipation. Were they even still there? Marizelle had been planning to move back to Belize City, closer to her parents. Tezhay had intended to be back in time to help with the arrangements. Leaving the chicken bus before it reached the city had been a complete gamble.

He turned down a rutted dirt lane past a little Coca Cola stand, dodging a little blue taxi that stormed by in a cloud of dust. Chickens pecked at rinds in a ditch. A dog trotted past, tossing its head back to look Tezhay in the eye.

An old man sang in Garifuna as he rattled up on a bicycle held together with scraps of duct tape. He interrupted his song, but not his progress, to toss out a greeting:

"Tezhay! Buiti binafi! Ida biangi?"

"I am fine, Mr. Rutherford. How is your health?"

"Madihariba nau. Nau!" said the old man, beaming. He kept on rolling and launched back into his song.

Where the lane widened onto a commons before the old church, a gaggle of kids chased a half-inflated soccer ball across a dusty, pitted pitch with stick frames as goals. Another group took turns dancing through doubled jump ropes. An excited murmur boiled up under the shade of a mango tree in the corner of the pitch. A cluster of children exploded towards him.

Tezhay stopped in the road to face them. And there she was, little Gabrielle, leading the charge, her long braids whipping about, slapping against her bright teeth, her eyes and mouth open with astonishment.

"Papa!" she squealed.

Tezhay scooped up his little girl and kissed her and swung her onto his hip with one arm. She squeezed his neck hard enough to choke him.

"Papa... where did you go this time, so long?"

"Far away, child. Too far, I go."

"Every day mama says you'll come back today. How come you never come back?"

"But I did. I am here, no? Today, mama is right."

The children swarmed around him, patting the sack holding the mandolin, each claiming finger holds on Tezhay's shirt as they paraded past the church, turning onto the tree lined street of fenced gardens and corrugated roofs that was home to Tezhay's family.

He nodded to people he barely knew, surprised at all the faces lighting up at his presence, from the young men in the wood shop all covered with sawdust, to the old crone spreading peppers to dry on an old bed sheet. He spent so little time here, yet everyone knew him and seemed excited to see him return.

Though, not as much as the handsome woman on her front stoop weaving baskets for tourists, surrounded by sheaths of reed and vine and long grasses. She tossed aside the spiky, unfinished basket in her hands and shot up from the stool.

"Tezhay?" Her voice trembled. Her eyes glistened.

"Yes, it is me," he said. "Who else would it be?"

She came running, careening into him, enveloping him in her arms. Mandolin chords, surprisingly assonant, rang out from the collision.

"Careful, careful!" He lowered the sack to the ground and the little family huddled together in a medley of hugs and kisses, laughs and remonstrations.

To Tezhay, home was never any fixed location, but a place that moved with the people who mattered most in one's life. No matter how wide and unpredictable his travels, his heart stayed constant. He would never be a peregrin at home.
Epilogue

Note hanging from a pine tree on the Acton/Concord line:

"Dear Lizbet,

I sure hope you get this note. And I hope it's you that gets this note first and not some soldier. Miles sez this ink won't run but I jamed it in this plastic bag we found just to make sure. I hope you find it all right. Sorry we left without you guys. I hope everyones doing okay. So if you get here and you want to reach me just call and well come get you.

I wanted to wait rite here for you all, but Miles sez who knows when this thing will open again. He says it will. Just he doesn't know wen. So we're gonna try to hop a train to Boston tonight. Miles has a credit card, so we can just find us a hotel.

Tomorrow we're gonna try to get to Connetticut (But first we gotta figure out how to get there.) Miles says I can stay at his place for the time being. His cell number (phone) is: 203-888-2743 in case you want to call wen you get here (and I hope you do!). If you call from Bostin, make sure you dial 1 first. Ask Frank to help. He'll show ya how.

He's gonna charge it up as soon as he can. Just call and I'll come get you and you don't have to walk nowere. Or else, Miles says the train tracks up there behind this tree go to Bostin, so just go up and follow the tracks and you'll find a station. Left goes out to the boonies sez Miles. Go right to head towards the city. Just so you know I think it was really nice of you to mary me. I never said so. Miles says we gotta go so bye.

Love,

Misty

*****

THE END

