In the Earth Abides the Flame (67 page)

In answer Tua's eyes widened. 'One of our Landstories,' he said. 'I've been trying to remember something for the last two days. I wondered what it was. I didn't know you had stolen it.'

'Borrowed, my friend. Borrowed. We don't steal everything.'

Te Tuahangata grunted in reply.

Their path northwards kept them close to the escarpment, and crossed many streams. At each one they paused to drink, as though it were the last, and marvelled at the sight of the water pouring from the cliff.

'So? Are you going to keep us in suspense?' the Haufuth asked the two southerners. 'What is this story of the Water-carrier?'

'You'd better tell it, Tua,' said Wiusago graciously.

Te Tuahangata nodded, then began.

'It is told in Hinepukohurangi, the Mist, that once all land was as ours: a place where humans lived in the embrace of earth and sky, where rain falls as a communion between Mother and Father, Earth and Sky themselves. But then one day the greatest of our warriors, Haputa by name, tired of this embrace, and called his family to him. "Brothers and sisters," he said, "You know my prowess. I am always in the forefront of battle. Never have I suffered defeat.

'"Yet now I have run out of foes, and the land has grown small," Haputa said, and his family acknowledged the fairness of his boast. "This is what I have purposed in my heart to do. I will find another land, and there I will breathe easier. Perhaps there I will find foes worthy of my battle-skill."

'His family were greatly saddened, and tried to dissuade him from his purpose, but he would not be swayed. At the next turning of the moon he said farewell to his family and journeyed alone to the east, far from the lands he had called home. And not once during that journey did he meet another person.

'Finally he found a fair land, a great valley scooped from the earth by the digging-stick of the gods. Vast mountains ringed the land, which was latticed by fair rivers and gem-like lakes. It was more beautiful than story can tell. Here indeed was room for a warrior like Haputa to breathe, to rejoice, to find ease for his heart.

'And for a season his heart did find rest: as he walked among the giant whitewood trees and listened to their slow speech; as he watched the white heron fish for her supper; as he lay on the grass and let the mist wash over him. But in the winter his sorrow returned, and his pride grew, and he purposed a dark deed in his heart. He took his warclub, with which he had taken the heads of many famous warriors, and raised it above his head.

'"Hear me!" he cried, and the gods bent their ears to listen to their favourite son. "There is no one to challenge me amongst those who live on the earth! I have been succoured by Earth-Mother and Sky-Father, but I need them no longer! I declare battle against them, for I desire the place amongst the stars their embrace hides from me!"

'The gods then ran in fear, for there was none among them who could face the battle-skill of Haputa in his pride and wrath. But Sky-Father and Earth-Mother continued in their embrace, and for the sake of the land they did not move. In anger, without thought, he swung his warclub and with one blow drove Earth-Mother and Sky-Father apart.

'At that moment the mist rose and vanished, and behold! Haputa stood on a mountain top, arms outstretched in triumph over a sunlit and beautiful land. And the stars circled around his head. He shouted a great boast: "Te tama whakaete turanga rau, i tin te upoko ki te kura a rangil The young man who forces his way on to a hundred standing places, whose head is emblazoned with the glow of heaven!"

And the land, bereaved of the embrace of Earth and Sky, became angry at his boast. Without the mist to dampen down its anger, the land erupted in flame. Many great mountains burst asunder, and the lifeblood of the land flowed across the valley like rivers. Here was a violence Haputa could not fight, and though he ran through the land like a fiery spirit, he could not salve the wounds he had caused. He then called on Earth-Mother and Sky-Father, inviting them to resume their embrace, but they would not. Though he repented of his folly, Haputa could not repair his ill-work.

'The gods took conference together, and decided to allow Haputa to make restitution. Pooling their power they drew a line across the land with their digging-stick, and where the line was drawn the land rose up in one piece, making a high cliff. This the gods struck with their stick, and where the rock was struck water sprang forth. They took their stick and reshaped it, making a large basin. Then they turned to the remorseful warrior, and spoke.

'"Hear us, Haputa, O greatest of warriors," said the gods. "In your pride you have driven apart our Mother and Father, and now they will never again have children. As a result the land suffers. Without the mist the land bleeds, and will die unless the wounds are salved.

' "Therefore, this is your task. You will take this basin and gather water from the Thousand Springs, then take it to the valley and put out the Thousand Fires. As long as you continue, the land will heal. But if you should tire, the land will die."

'Haputa thanked the gods, for here at last was a task he could measure himself against. He took the basin on his shoulders, gathered water from the Thousand Springs and poured it over the red wounds of the once-beautiful valley. In this fashion was the land-violence ameliorated, and the valley regained some of its beauty.

'But in the long advance of years the Water-carrier Haputa learned that his flesh, though mighty, was mortal. He laboured without rest, but he could never carry enough water to bring complete healing to the land. And as he grew old, his shoulders would not bear what they could when he was young. Thus it was that Haputa put aside his eternal task, and returned to the Mist, where his whanau greeted him with joy.

'But though Haputa the warrior lived, the Valley of a Thousand Fires died. The unassuaged flames of land's-blood and the heat of the desert sun boiled the waters, desiccated the trees, burned the animals until no life remained. The valley became a place of death, a memorial to the boastfulness of youth, the frailty of old age and the futility of strength. Thus the valley is held sacred to the people of the Mist, and none may enter it save in the greatest of need.'

Te Tuahangata finished his recital, smiled and wiped his sweaty hands on his bare chest. 'The tale never fails to move me,' he said self-consciously. 'I descend in direct line from Haputa the Water-carrier.'

And forever strive to match his deeds, Phemanderac thought. The words were as plain as if Te Tuahangata spoke them aloud.

'The tale I heard names Thousand Springs as a sacred place,' said Prince Wiusago as they walked on. 'The ambassador from Tabul told us his people never approach it, though it lies on the borders of his country.' He waved his arm vaguely to the southeast, where the semi-arid land rolled into the heat haze.

'Then does no one dwell near enough to appreciate its beauty?' Belladonna asked.

Wiusago glanced over his shoulder, measuring the distance they had come from the base of the cleft that gave them egress from the escarpment. The Arkhos and his men were yet to appear. 'None,' he answered. 'Though it is said the wild men of Khersos, the Deep Desert, revere Thousand Springs as the source of the Lifeblood, a river that flows without failing through their forsaken lands. They live to the east,' he added, answering Kurr's look of concern, 'and have nothing to do with the descendants of the First Men, pursuing their own strange purposes out of our knowledge.'

'We saw one,' said Phemanderac. His statement incited general amazement. 'In the Valley of a Thousand Fires, do you remember? He wore a white robe, and his face was as a bird of prey.

He carried two swords and a staff. I think he shadowed us all the time we were in the valley, and he was glad to see us leave.'

Phemanderac also looked over his shoulder as he talked, wondering what had become of the Arkhos. He should have completed the descent by now! So he did not see those in front of him suddenly halt. He walked blindly into the back of Belladonna, who stood rigid.

There, in front of the Arkhimm, was a wild, white-robed figure. As if raised from the dust by Phemanderac's words.

The figure gave a harsh cry, and in answer a hundred more like him sprang from within shadows, behind rocks, out from cracks in the earth. All sword-armed, poised for slaughter.

No one of the Arkhimm had to give the order to flee. They could not possibly stand against the violence written across a hundred implacable faces. None of them, not Wiusago, not Te Tuahangata, not even Achtal considered opposing the grouped force of the wild men. As one they turned and ran.

'The Sanusi, the wild ones ...' Wiusago gasped out as they ran. 'They are angry that... we desecrate Thousand Springs. Ruthless ... will kill their enemies.' His words, and even more the look of fear on his proud face, spurred them on.

Achtal paused a moment, gathered Hal in the crook of his arm, then slung him over his muscular back. Of them all, only the Bhrudwan retained a measure of self-possession.

After a few moments of wildest panic, Phemanderac remembered Belladonna and her magic, her powers of illusion. Frantically he sought her. There she was, just ahead of him. What happened next brought horror to his heart. He cried out her name and she turned to him, responding to the urgency in his voice; but in the act of turning she stumbled and pitched forwards, cracking her head on a rock. Without even a cry she collapsed, and blood began to seep from her temple.

The philosopher cried out in despair. Without pausing in his flight, Prince Wiusago bent down, gathered the still form in his arms and ran on.

Up ahead the Arkhos of Nemohaim and his soldiers had made the bottom of the escarpment, but he and his men were gathered up by the frantic Arkhimm as they sprinted past. In a moment of unlikeliest farce Phemanderac found himself running beside the outsized frame of the Arkhos himself, as the obese man clawed at the air in front of him as though trying to part it with his arms. He too had seen the danger. He too knew something of the reputation of these desert marauders.

Behind them the Sanusi came, stepping quickly, lightly, rever-ently over the sandy earth.

Their gait unhurried, their mien untroubled, their purpose clear. As they came they wound their killing veils about their heads.

'I can run no further,' rasped the Arkhos of Nemohaim, his face purple. 'Let us put aside enmity - for now - and do something about these wild men. Perhaps they want nothing more than our food.'

Phemanderac cast a glance over the Arkhimm: they had come to the end of their endurance.

Nothing drove them on but fear, and it was not enough. Whatever this enemy wanted, it must be faced.

A few yards ahead lay a stone-field, large rocks strewn about randomly. The gaunt, exhausted philosopher signalled to the others, motioning them to take cover. He had scant moments left before the tribesmen came to exact revenge. Taking stock of the situation, he added up their fighting potential: Te Tuahangata and Prince Wiusago, the three Instruian soldiers remaining to the Arkhos, Achtal the Bhrudwan ... He realised the Bhrudwan warrior was gone, was nowhere to be seen, had deserted them.

Phemanderac the philosopher had always believed his life was special, charmed somehow; that he was being prepared by the Most High for some great service to the world. He maintained complete faith in a manifest destiny even when rejected by the learned men of Dona Mihst, choosing to leave Dhauria and begin scouring Faltha for signs of the Right Hand of the Most High. And he had found him - them. For a few glorious, heady weeks, he had believed with all his heart that the consummation of his life was imminent, he was to be an important part of the salvation of Faltha, the remaking of the world, and perhaps the redemption of his own morally stagnant people. Then Leith had been lost in the Joram, the Arrow, the Arrow ... oh, what hope had risen within him when he beheld the Jugom Ark! But the Arrow had fallen into ruin, and for the first time in his life the cold wind of doubt blew across the landscape of his mind, threatening his carefully constructed mental dwelling places. And now... he could barely believe what was happening. They were trapped - no, they had been herded — and were ready for slaughter. Belladonna lay lifeless in Wiusago's arms.

The remainder of the Arkhimm would die violently, cruelly, and the promise of redemption would die with them. Achtal, their only hope of resistance, had left them to their fate.

He could not believe that it was about to end this way.

'Where's Achtal?' Kurr cried. The veiled tribesmen were only a few yards away.

'Gone!' came Phemanderac's lorn cry. Cheated hope stole his courage, and the hero of Helig Holth had nothing left to give.

'How are we to make a defence?' Hal asked quietly. He had not given up.

'Draw your weapons,' said Te Tuahangata. 'Stand back to back. Make them come to you. Pick one man and look him in the eye. The real battleground is in the mind. Intimidate him with your confidence. Banish fear from your thoughts.' He sounded like he was reciting an old battle creed - one even he had little confidence in.

'We've just finished running away from them,' observed Illyon bitterly in the silence before battle. 'How do we convince them we're not frightened?'

'Like this!' cried Te Tuahangata. He leapt forward on to a rock in full view of the white-robed tribesmen. Brandishing his great warclub in one hand, he shouted in a tone of utmost belligerence: 'Kaore e pau, he ika unahi raw/' Even as his challenge hung in the air, he unwound a string from around his waist and began to whirl it above his head. Immediately a ghastly ululation rang out as a small shell on the end of the string whipped around and around.

The tribesmen took an involuntary step backwards, then determinedly strode forwards and gathered just beyond sword-reach.

For a moment everyone stood still. Then the line of veiled tribesmen parted and their leader stepped forward. He unwound his veil and sheathed his curved scimitar as he did so.

He means to parley, Kurr realised.

One of the Arkhos of Nemohaim's men leapt forward with a snarl, and aimed a vicious sword-blow at the defenceless tribesman. Kurr's cry of dismay had hardly been issued when a knife cut through the air and buried itself in the Instruian's face, stopping the blow short and sending the Arkhos's man tumbling to the ground, where he twitched for a second or two.