The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (24 page)

Lukien reared back. In his ears he heard the tongue, foreign and
strange, but in his head he heard the words. At once he reached for the Eye of God, which had begun to burn against his chest.

‘You do?’ Lukien asked. ‘You know what I’m saying?’

The boy looked at his playmates in confusion. The children all nodded.

‘Who are you?’ the boy asked. Again Lukien heard his voice vibrating in his skull, knowing it was magic that translated his language.

‘My name is Lukien,’ he said. He pressed down on the amulet hidden beneath his shirt, feeling its pulsing warmth and the ever-present Amaraz within it. He searched his brain for the presence of the great Akari, but felt only his own thoughts. ‘I come from a place very far away,’ he continued. ‘Past the mountains and the dead city. I followed the river to get here.’

The children gathered closer, pulling themselves from the mud to get a better look. Their curious, dirty faces lit with amazement.

‘The dead city? Where?’ asked the girl who had first feared him.

Lukien pointed over the mountains. ‘Back there, many miles. I came from there days ago.’

The boy spoke again. ‘You walked?’

‘And rode,’ replied Lukien.

‘What happened to your face?’ asked another child, this one a girl slightly younger than the first. She frowned as she noticed Lukien’s missing eye.

‘I lost my eye in a fight. It was a long time ago. Can you take me into the village?’

The children looked at each other, unsure how to answer. Lukien gazed past them toward the smallest boy, still playing very close to the river bank. Something strange floated in the water. Like a log, it moved with ease through the still river, dark and barely visible, gliding toward the wading boy. While the children argued, Lukien puzzled over the thing, his smile fading . . .

‘Fate above!’ he cried. Exploding past the others, he raced toward the bank. ‘Move!’

At the edge of the flooded bank, the boy heard Lukien’s cry and slowly turned to see what was wrong. Seeing the Bronze Knight charging toward him, the boy startled and fell backward into the mud. The children shouted. The living log slithered quickly onto the bank, its jaws opening to snatch the fallen boy. Lukien sprang with a shout, launching himself against the crocodile. His hand flew to his dagger, unsheathing it and slashing it forward as he landed on the lizard. The boy shrieked in terror. The crocodile rolled its muscled body through the mud. Lukien felt the blade scratch across the lizard’s armoured hide, then the sickening lurch as the beast spun him over. The great jaws hissed, clamping down on his arm. A dazzling pain ripped through his body. He heard the children
shouting in the distance, their frenzied voices filling his ears. Through the muddy haze he saw the tiny boy still sitting helplessly nearby. Lukien wrenched his arm free of the crocodile’s jaw, tearing off his sleeve and tatters of skin. With his other arm he went for the monster’s belly.

This time, the dagger bit deep, ripping through the yellow flesh. A hot ooze soaked Lukien’s hand. He peddled quickly backward, gasping to get away as the crocodile thrashed in hissing pain. The water around them blackened with gore. Lukien pulled himself desperately from the mud, his wounded arm burning with pain. When he reached the screaming child he scooped the boy up over the bank, struggling to reach safety. The crocodile snapped its great head upward, its eyes rolling beneath it’s filmy lids. Lukien deposited the frantic boy on the bank and watched as the lizard’s stubby legs thrashed and twitched, the dagger still in its belly. A great rent had opened in its flesh, spilling blood into the water.

‘Mother whore,’ gasped Lukien, falling to his knees. His arm throbbed in agony. Around him the other children began to rally, some shouting for the adults in the village, others comforting the muddied tot. Hunched in pain, Lukien fought to keep from fainting.

‘You are hurt!’ cried the boy who had first spoken. His eyes widened as he examined Lukien’s arm, then flicked toward the dying crocodile. ‘You killed it.’

Lukien nodded, grunting instead of speaking. He knew he was lucky his arm hadn’t been lost. The pain was enormous, but the crocodile had only barely caught his flesh. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath. Already the Eye of God began to work its magic, filling his body with healing warmth.

‘Help me, Amaraz,’ he whispered. ‘Help me . . .’

The spirit of the Eye awakened, and the red jewel spread its light across Lukien’s chest. The pain in his arm began to ebb. Like a miracle, he felt the teeth marks knitting closed and the blood stop flowing from his wounds. As always, Amaraz remained mysteriously silent. Lukien didn’t bother thanking the Akari. He began breathing normally, knowing he would be all right.

‘We’ll help you,’ said the boy. He took Lukien’s unhurt arm and tried lifting the knight to his feet. Lukien rose unsteadily, blinking to clear his one good eye, searching for the little boy. The boy was sobbing and talking at the same time, choking on his words. A team of children circled him. The boy helping Lukien glanced up at him, plainly awed by what he’d done. ‘You killed the hooth. You saved him.’

Lukien looked back toward the dead crocodile. ‘Hooth? Is that what you call them?’

‘We should have watched for them,’ said the boy. ‘The hooth sometimes come here to feed.’

‘My dagger . . .’

‘I’ll get it,’ the boy volunteered.

Lukien quickly snagged his sleeve. ‘Don’t. Just leave it.’

By now adults were coming from the village, running to see what had happened. A young, attractive woman raced away from the rest of them, her eyes locked on the frantic little boy. He was no more than two years old, Lukien supposed, and the woman – most likely his mother – sprinted like an athlete to reach him. Not even noticing Lukien, she skidded to her knees in front of the boy, hugging and kissing him. The children around her began offering explanations. Remarkably, Lukien understood them all. As quickly as they spoke, the magic of the amulet deciphered their words. Within moments, a dozen more adults had arrived at the river bank, stopping to stare when they noticed Lukien. One of them, a large man with a troubled expression, called out to the woman, kneeling beside her and the child.

‘Who’s that?’ Lukien asked.

‘That’s Jahan,’ the boy answered. ‘Naji’s father.’

Once he realized his son was unhurt, Jahan stood to confront Lukien. His dark eyes surveyed the stranger, but Lukien could not read his expression. Jahan simply looked intrigued. He was about the age of his wife, a youngish thirty, and dressed like the others in his village, in loose fitting clothes and a fabric belt cinched around his waist. A tightly pulled pony-tail of jet hair ran down his back.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. His almond-shaped eyes narrowed on Lukien.

‘My name is Lukien,’ said the knight. ‘I’m a traveller, new to these parts.’

Jahan puzzled over the reply. ‘You speak as we do? But not as we do. Where are you from?’

‘From Liiria,’ said Lukien. ‘A place far away.’ He didn’t want to say more about the language or the magic that made their conversation possible. ‘My home is east of here, past the mountains,’ he said. ‘Past the dead city and the desert.’

‘What happened to my son?’

It was the boy who answered, speaking up to defend Lukien. ‘A hooth, Jahan. Naji was playing too close to the water. We were watching him, Jahan. But then this man came . . .’

‘You saved my boy from the hooth?’ Jahan asked.

Lukien rubbed his still throbbing arm. ‘I saw the crocodile in the water.’

‘He killed it!’ said one of the girls. ‘We all saw.’

Jahan stepped closer, examining Lukien’s arm. ‘That needs tending.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Lukien. ‘But I could use a place to rest, and maybe some food. I’m no danger to anyone. As I said, I’m just a traveller.’

‘You are not like anyone I have ever seen,’ said Jahan. ‘And no one comes from the east. I have questions.’

‘I’ll try to answer them if I can,’ said Lukien. He gestured toward the man’s son. ‘Have you checked him? Is he hurt?’

Jahan looked back at his son, who had at last stopped sobbing. Jahan’s wife still cradled the boy in her arms, holding his head against her breast. She told her husband that the boy was merely frightened. Relieved, Jahan looked back at Lukien.

‘I am grateful for what you did,’ he said. ‘Every year the hooth take someone from us. If not for you, it would have been my son.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Lukien. ‘And don’t blame the children. It wasn’t their fault. They would have watched your son, but I startled them when they saw me.’

‘You have startled all of us,’ Jahan laughed. ‘A man from the east!’ He glanced around at his fellow villagers, all of whom wore stunned expressions. Some had even gathered around Lukien’s horse, studying the beast as if they’d never seen it’s like before. ‘You say your name is Lukien?’

‘That’s right,’ Lukien replied.

‘Well then, Lukien, you must come to my home. Rest and tell us your story.’

‘I would like that,’ said Lukien with a smile.

Having got Jahan’s approval, Lukien let the children swarm around his legs, pulling at him as they guided him toward the village.

That night, Lukien found himself surrounded by Jahan’s family, sitting near Jahan at the head of a plain table without chairs, sharing a good, basic meal.

For most of the afternoon, Lukien had slept. After being led to Jahan’s modest house, Jahan’s wife Kifuv had cleaned and dressed Lukien’s wounded arm, then taken his muddied clothing out to the river for washing. The home was tiny, with only three rooms for the whole large family, but Jahan had given up the room that he shared with Kifuv so that Lukien could sleep. Exhausted, Lukien slept like a baby for hours, and when he awoke he found clean clothes for him to wear sitting next to the straw mattress. They were not the clothes he had dirtied, but rather traditional garb from Jahan’s own supply – a comfortable white shirt with a large open collar and belt, and a pair of pants that Lukien had to cinch tightly with the cloth belt to keep from falling down. As he was dressing, Jahan came in and led him into the main room of the house, where the family took its meals. There, around the table, sat Kifuv and her six children, including little Naji. Led by Jahan, Lukien took a seat on a small pillow near the ground, thrilled by the sight of the food and humbled by the attention.

Although the village was small, it had provided an ample meal for them. The clay tableware was filled with bread, raisins, honey, and various types of dried fish that had been caught from the river. A brass platter – the only form of metal plate on the table – shone brightly in the torchlight, showcasing a roasted waterfowl that had been slaughtered for the occasion. There were utensils for serving the food, but none for eating, and Lukien had no trouble at all helping himself with his hands, which he could wash in a small, ceramic bowl filled with water when he was done. He still wore the Eye of God hidden beneath his shirt, and though Jahan and Kifuv had both noticed it when he undressed, neither had commented about the strange amulet. Mostly, they were simply convivial to him, as were their children, and Jahan spent the first part of the meal telling Lukien about the hooth, the great river, and their village.

‘There were eleven of us who formed the village,’ Jahan explained proudly. He dipped bread into honey as he talked, then broke off a bit to share with one of his daughters, seated beside him. ‘That is the way the Simiheh do things. When we are growing up as boys we eat together, hunt together, learn together, everything. Then, when we are old enough, we leave together to form our own village. This village is twenty years old now.’

Lukien nodded, interested and full of questions. ‘How did you choose this land? Did no one else have claim to it?’

‘This is the territory of our people,’ said Jahan. ‘It is all Simiheh land.’

‘Simiheh? That is what you call yourselves?’

‘That is our name. My father was Simiheh, and his father before that, and all the fathers of the boys who came to build this village. We are three-hundred now, maybe more.’ Jahan beamed at his wife. ‘A strong village.’

Lukien felt happy for Jahan, and for the pride he took in his accomplishments. But for himself, Lukien felt disappointment. Clearly he was not in Tharlara. He took a drink from his cup, filled with a barley beer. He had taken an immediate liking to the beer.

‘The Simiheh are all around this area,’ Jahan continued. ‘There are five more villages, all nearby. When my sons are old enough, they will go off with the other boys their age, and they will start a new village.’

‘Then what will happen to this village?’ asked Lukien. ‘Who will defend it? Who will work the land?’

Jahan said casually, ‘When the people are gone, the village will be gone.’

‘But what about all you’ve built? What about the homes? I mean, what about the
village
?’

The question perplexed Jahan, who looked inquisitively at his wife.

‘The village is the people,’ said Kifuv.

Jahan nodded. ‘Yes, that is it. The village is the people. The village is not the things we build. Do you see, Lukien?’

‘I think so,’ Lukien replied. It was very different from the way things were in his part of the world. ‘But tell me again – this is the Simiheh land? Is that what this place is called?’