Mountains and Valleys - A Qud Story | Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In the high hours of the night, she begins packing. Her cloak - threadbare as it is - is draped across a table in the corner of the room she woke in. She presses on the bulb beside her, feeling it give way under her touch and then build resistance as it fills partly with the luminescent fluid. The dim orange glow casts a muted shadow by her movements. She gathers her few belongings; her goggles, gloves, and moccasins are bundled in her shirt, tucked in a chest at the foot of the bed. When she carefully unfolds the wrapped package, her dagger gleams up at her, catching the light on its sinewy edge. It seems to shiver in the rippling shine, slithering into the palm of her hand. The raider it had belonged to had not given it easily. They had struggled over it, rolling down the salt dune that she’d tucked herself against to sleep. She still felt the sting of white grains in fresh wounds, still smelt the metal tang of his blood as he’d stared up at her from the shadow of the ridge. She had knelt over him, seen his grey eyes go wide as he slipped across the veil, the kris buried in his chest. She had removed his hood, closed his eyes and passed a dram of water across his lips, which ran quickly to the ground and made a small, shimmering pool before the great white desert drank it in with his spirit. She had kept it, since, and it had helped her make meagre meals of the desert rats and bodies of desiccated birds in the weeks and months that followed. She sheaths it in the sash of her skirt, tight against her hip. She has no pack. No need for one. She grabs her cloak and with a swift motion that dances petals of light through the holes of the thing, it wraps around her shoulders. She turns, and stops. In the doorway, Boha stands still, waiting, one forepaw on the dark green frame.
“You will not stay, Avira?” Their voice is soft when they speak.

“I cannot,” Avira answers. “Thank you for your care and kindness, but I have stayed too long already.”

“Sit and share a meal with me before you travel then.” They hold a thick wooden bowl in their other hand, and offer it up. “Surely, it will not harm to wait until the shadow of the clouds have passed and journey with a full stomach.”
Avira is about to refuse, but hunger pulls at her gut in a tightening chord and she obliges with a nod. Boha indicates for her to coax more light from the pod as she sets the bowl down. They sit together where her cloak had been a moment ago and quietly sip in turns from the bowl. It is a heartier broth, spicy, with the subtle flavour of marrow. Pieces of vinewafer stick in her teeth as she drinks and she watches Boha chew at them thoughtfully. In the quiet, the chirping buzz of insects drifts through the window. After a time, Boha breaks the silence.

“I have been the apothecary in Suma for many years,” they say, lips drawing tight and eyes closing in a canine smile. The white tufts of fur on their forehead which stand out so brilliantly against the mottled brown of the rest of their coat hints at just how many years they mean. “It has been a good service, and the salt marsh provides much in the way of life’s wonders to work with. You are regaining strength, and this was to help yet more.”

They sigh. “Your wounds are not yet fully healed. I would suggest more bed rest, but it is your will that moves you and not mine.” Avira sips at the bowl as Boha speaks, feeling the warm soup roll across her tongue and heat her from within. Boha continues, “Suma is a gentle place, the little gods here have made it so, and warden Kemu keeps the peace as it is needed.” They pause to take their turn to sup. “He came to us from across the red canyon, says the jungle spat him out. I will not try to stop you, but there is safety here, and I would see you hale before you leave us.”

“I cannot stay, Boha.” Avira whispers, eyes cast down to her hands. She looks up again and meets Boha’s gaze.

“Why not, sister? What causes you to run?” They plead, brown eyes locked on her own, swimming with emotion. “What disturbs your sleep so?”

“I am hunted.” Avira’s gaze is sharp. “You say your warden keeps the peace, but peace has not known me long, and should I stay, what peace is here will shatter.” She stills her shaking fist with her other hand, cupping it close to her chest. Her gaze softens, drifts down again, lands on the shadows that ripple along the edge of the empty bowl and dip inside. The night is dark and fragrant in her senses. Her next words are quiet, nearly swallowed by the gloom. “Thank you for your care and kindness, apothecary, but I will not bring that breaking to you.”

Boha pushes back from the table, gathering the bowl in one hand and placing the other gently on Avira’s bandaged shoulder. “As it must be then. Dehla will be sad to see you gone.” They begin to leave and then, as if with an afterthought, they add: “if you plan to travel at night, beware the mudpools. The marsh is riddled with them. Indistinguishable from the brine in the dark and will swallow you whole before you can so much as scream.” They look over at the bed, noting the neatened covers. “I would suggest you leave at waxing sun - a few more hours, a little more rest, and you’ll be safer for it.”

Avira nods. “Thank you, Boha. I will heed your advice.”

Boha flashes their canine smile again, but Avira could see their tail was still now. “I am glad to hear it, I will task Dehla with fetching fresh water for my herb garden in the morning so that she doesn’t disturb your exit. She has been a great help this last week with your care but it is easier for her to say goodbye to a shadow than it will be to see you go.” With that, they turn and leave, and Avira watches them retreat into the waiting dark. They move steadily across the floating walkways, tail acting as a counterweight to the subtle tide. Avira turns and shuffles back to the bed, laying on top of the woven blanket, halfway on her side. She folds her arms across her stomach, trying to breathe her way back into sleep.

Harvest dawn breaks with the subtle sound of motion in the fields. Avira blinks away the last vestiges of unrecalled dreams and tenses each muscle in turn. Toes, then ankles, moving up to her calves, thighs, hips, each segment of her tail, then her spine, feeling each vertebrae as she moves to sit up. She reaches her arms above her head, bathing them in the golden glow that cascades in small rivers through the dense, salty air. Her shoulder gripes at the movement, and she has to ease down through her belly so that her ribs do not complain too. The bed is soft with the down of marsh birds and she is sad to leave it for what she knows will be many more months of hard sleep on gathered bundles of leaves over stone. She swings her legs to the side, tail supporting the subtle twisting motion of her hips. Beside the bed, a small bottle draws her attention. It is filled with an amber fluid, and around its neck a thin paper tag hangs loosely on string. ‘Take an eighth-dram nightly - Boha’, it reads in an eddying hand. She tucks it in a pocket inside her cloak and offers silent thanks.
She is still dressed, but the few hours that passed have brought a certain reluctance to her mind. She pushes past it, feeling the thin cut of will through membranous sensation. She is on her feet, and moves with purpose. Outside, in the fields, canine forms wade waist deep between the plants; crescent tools scraping up the stems to loose the clacking pods with soft splashes. She watches them a moment, sees how they bundle and pack them in the baskets on their backs. They sing as they work, a sound that rises from the group in rounds. A mixture of low whines and growling words which make a pleasant, constant melody. She sets her sights to the horizon, sees the mountains looming purple through distant fog. She begins to walk, pulling up the hood of the cloak to avoid the eyes of the people she passes. The hut she had recovered in was at the southern edge of the village. By the spread of buildings, she can tell the main square of the village must be a little West, and she opts to avoid it. Better not to make too many connections here. She follows the walkways that edge the village’s boundaries, finds the one that descends at a gentle slope to meet the ground just below the water’s surface. She removes her shoes, ties them around her waist and begins to trudge barefoot through the sucking mud that comes up over the tops of her feet. She feels wriggling things squirm between her toes and shivers, but presses on. The village behind her, she moves East, toward the red sandstone crags that form a thin boundary between the lush greens, blues, and browns of the marsh and the dark, shadowed belly of the jungle. As she moves, the reeds grow taller, wilder. Around her is a constant buzz; the sound of insects, the chirping of glowpads and small glowfish that poke their heads above the water’s surface to catch her with their bulbous, watchful gaze. They hum, and chirrup, bubble and splash, a playful dance of movement alien to her. Before long, before the sun has risen even a quarter in the sky at her head, her splashing tread is interrupted by the sound of another, quicker pace. The sharp crack of a breaking vine alerts her to the proximity of her pursuer. She whips around, eyes searching between the reeds for signs of movement. She crouches low, well beneath the height of the stalks. Drawing the dagger from her waist, she holds it ready to slash with an inward swing. She moves in a slow arc, snakelike, tail twitching over her shoulder. Her gaze darts as the splashing draws closer, then stops. Then comes a louder, more furious beating at the surface of the water, more stalks breaking all at once and a scream. A child’s shout of panic. Avira rushes forward with flurried motion, moving through the thick brush of reeds which bend and break at her push.

 

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She was right, she saw; it was the hindren child. She comes upon the scene quickly, it wasn’t more than twenty feet through the thick, scraping reeds. All around her, the furious clacking and squealing of the marsh rises in frenzied pitch. The child scrambles, tries to grab at the reeds behind her which only snap as she catches them. She is in a small clearing, and she isn’t alone. A great green beast with scales like cracked and mossy stone lunges furiously at her and catches her by the hind hoof. It begins to turn about its center, pulling her through the stalks and toward a deeper pool of salty water, its long and spiny tail lashing a wake in the water behind it. Its jaws are clamped tight and the sick sound of bone shattering above the hoof rings in Avira’s ears. Dehla is sobbing, being dragged along the side of the creature, trying desperately to catch on to something as water splashes over her snout and mud from the river bottom coats her fur. Avira leaps forward, or tries to. The unfamiliar terrain slows her, the marsh clinging to her feet as she swings her torso with the effort of movement. The faster she tries to move, the more the mud pulls at her, and her voice rises in panic.

“Dehla! Grab my hand!” She shouts, desperate. Dehla swings her arm out wildly as she twists her upper body, reaching out as much as she can. As she does, her head smacks a stone just beneath the water’s surface. With a loud crack, almost indistinguishable from the breaking stalks, she goes limp. A thin trickle of blood swims across the muddied water, a red ribbon that flushes out to pink. Avira roars with effort, pulling her feet free of the mud and moving forward with steady and fierce steps. She reaches out, catches the tail of the thing with her free hand and plants her feet. She plunges her dagger between the thick scales and feels the soft flesh part beneath. The beast twists, hisses, opening its mouth and dropping its juvenile prey. It makes to snap at her, body contorting in violent angles. As it nears, her tail, with a mind of its own, plunges its point through the eye of the thing, small muscles contracting the sac of paralysing venom which floods quickly through its nervous system. It shakes, hisses out a low breathy rumble as its lungs collapse their movement, and then is still. Avira knows that should it shake off the effects quickly, it will recover enough to attack from behind while she tends to the child - if she isn’t dead already. She takes her knife and opens the jaws of the beast. Its lingering breath is foul; meaty and rotten, and scraps of fur and gristle catch between its yellowed teeth. The remains of many years of killing. It was a fine hunter. She is finer still. She carefully reaches in and lodges the point of the blade at the roof of the mouth, just below the skull, the hilt held tight in a divet of the jaw. She leaves it there, withdrawing her hand and taking a deep breath, whispering a small prayer to exchange this creature’s life for the life of its would-be prey. Then she places her hands at the end of its snout and looks into the lightless eyes. With one swift motion, she slams the thing’s jaws closed, and hears the muffled crack as the dagger pierces the soft pallet of the brain pan and finishes the creature’s hunt forever. The silence that follows is sundered only by the small splashes of swimming things darting quickly away from the noise. She opens the jaws again and draws the blade out in a slick motion that sluices red ichor across her hands. She dips it below the water’s surface, wipes it on her cloak, and sheathes it once more. Then she turns with purpose to the child. She hadn’t seen while she was fighting the thing, but Dehla’s snout had slipped below the water’s lip and her breath was bubbling out, upper body racking as liquid filled her lungs. With panic, she hurries to her side and turns Dehla’s face to the sky. Avira massages her chest, pounds it again and again until the girl coughs up salty, mucus-laced fluid and draws in air in a ragged gasp. She rests the girl's head in her lap, kneeling in the mud. Her tail flicks out in frustrated motions as she notes the girl’s injuries. She is covered in scratches on her arms and lower body where the spines of the reeds had caught her, and flying insects crowd around the mangled mess of her hoof. Her shirt is torn, ripped across the back in the creature’s first desperate lunge. The head wound is bleeding, still, but it doesn’t seem to be deep and already salt is staunching the flow. She wouldn’t be able to move like this, and it is only a question of time’s kindness before another creature caught the scent of blood carried on the salt air. She is still unconscious, and her breaths are short and accompanied by groans of sleep-muted pain. Avira tears a strip of cloth from the base of her cloak, bandages the hoof in tight black fabric to staunch the flow.

She spares one more glance at the beast and makes up her mind.

She chanced to move the girl, carrying her lower body - similar to an antelope’s, though lighter - across the midriff, tail wrapped once around her, stinger carefully kept away. It strained her, but it was eased by slinging the girl's arms around her shoulders and hoisting her up so that her snout lay next to Avira’s hood, across the bandages on that side. Every step was agony, and it was many more hours heading back toward the village than it was leaving.
The salt sun is waning in the sky, dipping low across the spread of the jungle behind the huts when she comes to the village’s edge once again.
In the shadowing afternoon, a small crowd has gathered and are passing burning torches between them. They chatter busily among themselves as a broad figure at their head organises them, pointing to positions on a map. A short bark sounds from among the crowd and gathers their attention on Avira, who is pulling herself from the edge of the wild brinestalks with stumbling footsteps. Dehla’s breath is cool against her cheek, the hood thrown back after long hours of heat and stifling humidity. That yell is joined by others, all shouting to help her, to take Dehla from her back, to carry her to the hut nearby. She feels a press of bodies surround her, easing her burden, feels someone pass their broad neck beneath her arm. They are like a pillow of coarse fur over rippling muscle, and they half carry her up and over the wide floating paths. She is semi-lucid, pain ripping through her chest and across her back. Her tail is weak from the strain, trailing limply behind her. The person carrying her is speaking to her in a low voice, reassuring, but she can’t make out the words. There’s a question- what?

“-ou lie here?” Then a fraction of mumbled conversation, another voice, as she’s put on her side on the soft cushioned board of the bed once again. She fights to stay awake, but loses quickly and finds the oblivion of sleep waiting. The setting sun flows like treacle through her dreams.

When she opens her eyes, it is a bear that sits beside the bed this time, lounging in the woven reed chair. His arms are crossed over his great, heaving chest, a single spittle of drool pooling from the corner of his mouth. He snores in his sleep. Avira moves carefully into a sitting position, flinches as the pain remembers her. The bear’s eyes remain shut to the world, and she watches him for a moment. He is costumed in a loose blue coverall and silvery pieces of armour which wend and warp what little light there is that glances from them into myriad fractal patterns. He snorts loudly, breath catching in his throat, and then freeing itself with a shuddering sigh in several short bursts. The filmy blue of the night is all about them, thick with heat against their skin. Small buzzing things flicker through the shadows, drawing blood where they can find exposed skin. One lands on the bear’s nose - Kemu, she places the name with the warden’s outfit - and he sniffs and stirs, then settles into rhythmic snores once again. She questions his presence - merely concern for the stranger who brought back the injured child? Unlikely. It was more probable that he’s here to keep watch, to make sure she doesn’t slip away into the night. Well, she is quick and quiet, and he will be troubled to stop her in his slumber. She quickly gathers her belongings. Her cloak is again draped over the table in the corner. Boha or Kemu must have taken it from her again to tend to her wounds. Her dagger is by the bed now, next to Kemu’s mighty back paw. She reaches gingerly for it from behind him, spins and slips it quickly into her waistband. She isn’t halfway to the door when she hears the rough, low rumble of his v  oice.

“Kemu commands you; stop,” he speaks. Avira freezes, the hood of her cloak caught on a claw like a black sickle. He had moved so quickly, so silently for someone so large.

“I have questions,” he says, simply, and releases her. Avira turns slowly on her heels, hand on her dagger, not drawing it but making clear that she will not be easy prey.

“Ask them, then,” she says. “Be done with them, and let me leave.”

“Do not be so eager to go, Avira.” His words rumble through her in a deep bass thrum. He stands tall, the top of his head scraping the low, shell-patterned ceiling. He looms with an easy menace, but does not act to pressure her. “I wish to know what harm came to the child.”

“She followed me.” Avira says, a small modicum of tension bleeding out of her stance. “She found me in the marsh, and something found her.”
“Describe the creature,” he bids. He folds his arms, moving to lean against the wall behind him. He gestures to the chair. “Sit.”

Avira does, relaxing her weight into the blanketed seat, still warm from Kemu’s body, and says “It was large, the length to match the height of you. A great whipping tail, and plated scales all along its hide. Green and grey at once.” She pauses, recalling the rending sound of teeth on bone. “It had great jaws the length of its snout.”

“You speak of a croc,” he says, thoughtfully, eyes on his feet, or the dust-patterned earth. “Maramisa’s creatures, hunters that share land and water both.” He lets out a low growl of frustration. “How far from Suma was the beast?”

“I left at harvest dawn, heading East,” she replies. “The salt sun was waxing when the child found me.”

“Closer again.” his lips curl back into a snarl, bearing fangs like stalactites patterned in yellow plaque. “Marasima encroaches on our boundaries. I must inform Drinks-from-clean-cups, a ritual is called for.” He looks up at her, anger slipping from his features to be held in a closed fist. “Thank you, Avira. I must ask that you stay a while longer. Boha will be concerned with aiding in the ritual of boundary-making and the child will need care. It is understood here that when healing is exchanged, it strengthens the effect, and you and Dehla are bound by tended wounds now.”

“She is alive?” Avira asks, meeting his gaze across the dim room. “I had thought only to bring her back for last rites, an easier passage than the marsh would provide. I did not think-”

“She is awake already, though confused. You saved her life, sister.” Kemu shakes his head gently, his coarse brown fur catching shadows at its edges.

“I… I cannot stay.” She says, but Kemu cuts her off.

“Boha has spoken of your pursuers.” He says, eyes on the doorway to her right. His gaze follows a lightning bug that dances across the silver gap. “I hope it does not bother you that she did so, but I must be aware of threats to the peace here if I am to handle them.” His soft, dark eyes return to her and he raises a heavy paw to his heart. “I am Kemu of the Barathumites, Kemu of the Scar and Weld.” He pounds his chest once with a heavy thump, proud and certain. “I promise you your safety here.”