The Other Lands (5 page)

Melio and Kelis had reached their assigned posts. Earlier, they had established a series of piles of brushwood that were spaced in a widemouthed cone shape meant to funnel the foulthing toward a chosen area. As soon as the creature passed between the first of these outposts, the men touched fire to the pyres. Instantly they combusted in audible whooshes of flame and black smoke. The runners pressed on, near enough now that Mena could hear their shouts, bursts of sound peppered throughout the group, meant to further confuse the animals. She knew Melio and Kelis would be joining the runners, taking up their torches, adding their voices to the din. A little closer and another pyre went up, and another after that. Each successive explosion narrowed the pathway the creatures had and directed them toward Mena and the fifty crossbowmen she commanded, each of them with a second who stood just beside him.

“Ready yourselves!” she called, her voice as stern and confident as she could make it.

The crossbowmen began to extend their line, forming a widening U shape. They moved gradually as if they were not watching the animals speeding toward them. The bowmen walked with their weapons strapped to their bodies over their shoulders and around their waists. The bows were heavy, meant to fire a single, powerful shot. A second shot was unlikely since the bolts had to be loaded and the crossbows cranked slowly back to the ready position. On the bottom end of the U shape, the pairs positioned themselves behind metal rings that had been secured to the earth by long stakes.

It was into this area that the foulthing and its troop arrived in a cloud of snarling, dusty hair and teeth and anger. The giant itself was enraged. It danced about, smacking the ground, tearing up clods of dry earth and tossing them in the air. It bared its teeth, snapping at the sky. Its yellowed eyes shot rage out of them like a physical force. Standing on two legs, it spread its arms wide and thumped its chest. Around it hundreds of the tenten followed its lead. The cacophony of it, the turmoil, the nearness of such animal fury was almost too much to stand calmly facing.

But Mena made sure she did. She held them there for a few minutes, letting them settle into the space, asking her soldiers to be calm before they acted. Now that the animals were inside the U shape, the bowmen at the far ends slowly closed the open portion, making a great circle with the creatures in the center. The men took up positions around the rings nailed in place for them. The runners and the rest of the force spread out around the bowmen’s circle, thickening the ranks. Only when all were in position did Mena lift her arm. It was nearly time, and if they all did as they had planned, it would be over in—

It happened before she had any chance to stop it. One of the bowmen shot prematurely. The bolt flew dead straight and with all the released energy of its slowly cranked, twisted cable work. The force of its leaving would have knocked the bowman off his feet, except that a second man clasped him about the waist and stood with his feet planted firmly. The missile trailed a thin rope. It spooled out with a hiss. The bolt slammed into the foulthing’s chest, impacting its rib cage, and did not sink far. The force of it tossed the creature back in a sudden, rolling confusion of limbs and horns. When the tumble stopped, the thing was on its feet once more. It stood for a moment, confused and breathless, tenten bodies all around. Most of them still howled and bared their teeth; a few lay crumpled and broken from its rolling over them.

The foulthing grasped the bolt by the protruding shaft and yanked it out. The barbs tore through its flesh, but if it felt that particular pain it gave no sign. It focused on the bolt as if it were a living thing that might still harm it, and then its eyes played out along the rope that connected it to the cross bowman. With a roar it jerked the two men toward it, yanking them off their feet and dragging them on their bellies into the raging tentens.

The fools! Mena thought. They had forgotten what they were supposed to do. Who were these two? What she did then she did with instinctual quickness. She ran forward, drawing her Marah sword, yelling as she did so, hoping to draw the beast’s attention. As she neared the first of the tentens she swung her sword in wide arcs that cut clean through fur and skin and bone. The animals jumped back from her, all teeth and snarls. She hacked her way at a dead run toward the fallen men. She found them writhing and screaming, entangled together beneath a biting, scratching mound of tentens. The animals did not notice her until she had hacked the heads from two, limbs from even more, split another down through the skull, and spilled the guts of another in a gush that coated the two men.

A wave of soldiers rushed to help her. She stopped them all with a slash of her palm. “No!” she yelled. She knew that if they continued it would break the formation. There would be no order and they would not be able to carry out the rest of the plan. It would be chaos and many more than just she would die in it. “No!”

They stopped, tripped over each other, stood stunned and unsure until she motioned them back. She had barely managed to do so before another tenten leaped at her. She ducked beneath it and sliced its leg clean off.

“Come on!” she hissed. “Get loose of it!” She smacked the bowman with the palm of her free hand and then stood upright. With the same hand she drew her short sword.

The foulthing was some thirty or so strides away. It had paused to watch her. For a moment it was a statue amid a whirlwind of motion. Mena saw something like intelligent curiosity on its face. Its eyebrows seemed to lift slightly; the corners of its mouth twitched. She had not noticed how human its hands were, long-fingered and delicate as they caressed the rope. She experienced the moment as one of shared silence. She almost felt the creature was going to say something, do something. But the moment was short-lived, and the foulthing spoke no words. It seemed to grow tired of studying her. Those humanlike hands yanked on the cord again.

When the line went taut, Mena caught it between her two blades and sliced through the rope. The beast was thrown off balance and went down again. Mena turned and pushed, dragged, and shouted the two men to their feet and back to the safety of the circle.

“Remember your rings!” she shouted. “Every second, tie the ropes down!”

With that, the princess raised her arm, then immediately let it drop. Before it even reached her side, her generals had shouted in answer. In the next instant a confusion of bolts and ropes flew at the foulthing from all directions. Many hit it—in the chest and groin, deep in its calf and punching right through its other ankle, in its lower back and just above, in the muscled flesh of its upper torso, in the neck. Several passed through the curve of its horns, the ropes tangling in them as the creature spun. A few took out the lesser apes, skewering three or four at a time before losing momentum. And the bolts that missed sped straight toward the opposing bowmen and troops. This was when the seconds came into play again. They shifted from pressing forward on the bowmen to pulling back against them. The ropes snapped taut before reaching the other side, and the crossbows, even if yanked out of their wielders’ hands, were held fast by the sling straps.

Once the ropes were secured, archers stepped between them and lofted ropes attached to blunted arrows over the creature. Others retrieved them on the opposite side and anchored each end, further tightening a web of bonds on the foulthing, catching many tentens in the process. Mena watched until the injured and bound foulthing was pressed tight to the dry ground. She turned away as Halaly spearmen began to move into the circle, their long, narrow pikes able to impale the tentens at a distance. The auditory chaos was no less than before, but she knew the difficult task was over.

Melio found her walking slowly back toward the rock outcropping from which she wished to take in the horizon again, to see the largeness of the world and marvel at it. “You really must let others risk their necks on occasion,” he said, grinning. “You’re lucky your men fear you as much as they fear your death. If they didn’t, they might have stormed in and messed everything up. But you know that. You managed to pull it off, and it still gives you no joy.”

“How are the two?” she asked.

“The two you rescued?” He tossed his hair out of his face and studied her. “I believe they are injured but will both live to tell of it.”

“Any others?”

“Nothing but minor injuries, some bites.” Melio touched her arm, turned her toward him, and pulled her close. “Mena, this went well. You should be pleased. Let’s dance tonight as the Halaly do and be glad that there’s one less foulthing walking the world. Think of it that way.”

Mena accepted his embrace, welcomed it, and wanted to be folded into it for much longer than she allowed herself in public. But she did not think as he suggested. Not completely, at least. She would never forget the look in the beast’s eyes.

T
hat night, after the celebrations, she dreamed of the creature’s stare. She woke unsure where waking events ended and dreaming began. She told herself that it was the dream that made her so uneasy, not the reality. It was not possible that she had seen intelligence in the creature’s eyes. She had not heard its thoughts, not with her waking mind. It had not expressed a hatred for her and her kind that, in its reasoned, simmering potency, went far beyond that of any simple beast. That had been only in her dreams. Of course. Only in her dreams. Strange, though, that so soon after the event she could not easily separate the truth of it from her imaginings.

She decided to send a letter to the queen, declaring that they had one less foulthing to worry about. That’s all she would say. She would keep moving. Keep believing.

I
n the offices that had once been her father’s, Queen Corinn Akaran bent over her desk, arms spread wide and palms pressed against the smooth grain of the polished hardwood. The flared sleeves of her gown formed an enclosure of sorts, a screen that shielded the document from view on two sides. She was alone in her offices, but she knew—better than anyone else in the palace—that until she had eyes in the back of her head she could not trust that she was ever as unaccompanied as she believed herself to be. She favored this posture when she wished to focus her attention on a particular document, above which she would hang like a falcon poised to drop on a held mouse far below.

Nine years had passed since she had wrested the Acacian Empire from Hanish Mein’s grasp. Nine years of wearing the title of queen. Nine years of bearing the nation’s burdens on her shoulders. Nine years in which she confided fully in no one single person. Nine years of showing only glimpses of herself to different people, never the whole to anybody. Nine years as a mother. Nine years of secret study. Nine years of learning to speak like a god.

Her beauty was such that few noticed the effects of the passing seasons on her. She was slim enough to be the envy of women ten years her junior; youthful enough to be the ideal for girls who did not yet have to measure themselves against her; shapely enough in her carefully tailored gowns that men’s eyes followed her of their own accord, whether the man himself wished them to or not. No man who was attracted to women failed to see beauty in her full mouth, in her olive complexion, in her rounded shoulders and bosom, and in the curve of her hips. When had such a form ever embodied so much power and been driven by a mind as calculating? When had such a sensuous face ever been so latent with danger? She had surprised everyone with her sudden emergence to power, and all who had known her in her youth remained shocked by it.

Corinn knew these things as well as anyone. She made a point of knowing things. She knew that in the lower town the people called her the Fanged Rose. She rather liked the name. She knew which nobles were still fool enough to think they might bed her. She knew that a movement was afoot in the Senate to force her to marry. If they had their way, she would produce a legitimate heir to displace the son Hanish had fathered. They would not have their way. She knew which senators most hated her for curtailing their power and which clans and tribes most chafed against her recent decision to establish one national currency—the hadin—that the royal reserve exclusively minted. She knew which nobles needed to be played against one another during the intricate work of pushing her plans forward. She was glad to know all these things. Added together and weighed one against another, the balance always tipped in her favor. She was secure in rule, and she had plans to become even more so soon.

If all the scheming complexity of her position had etched fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, so be it. If she was fuller in the hips and chest than she had been before childbirth, what did that matter? If she walked more on her heels and less on the eager balls of her feet, that was as it should be. She had been lovely as a girl, but she knew that there were other ways to be lovely as a woman. She was not yet the age her mother was in her memories, which meant she had not reached the age to measure herself against her understanding of beauty. And of mortality. That day would come, she knew, but not just yet.