The Oracle’s Queen. Lynn Flewelling
using his newly learned Skalan. “Good sleep. I make you not sick. You give me—” He didn’t know the right word for it. He needed her agreement.
“I give you leave,” the woman whispered. “It won’t hurt none, will it?”
“No pain,” he assured her.
He droned her to sleep and called her spirit up to bathe in the moonlight, then set to work exploring her abdomen. To his relief it was only an abscessed ovary. A bad one, to be sure, but he soon cooled the hot humors and drew them away. It would take a few days and some cleansing herbs to finish the job, but when he played her back and bade her open her eyes, she pressed a hand to her side and smiled.
“Oh yes, that’s much easier! Irman, he is a good healer. Why do folks tell such tales of them?”
“We can make harm,” Mahti admitted. “Bad witches, too, but also those who fight the southlanders.” He gave the others an apologetic little bow. “Not friends, but those who kill us to take away our land.”
“Is it true, your people used to live all the way to the eastern sea?” one of Irman’s grandsons asked.
Mahti nodded sadly. The old ones still sang of sacred places by that salt water—rock shrines and sacred springs and groves that had gone untended for generations. The Retha’noi still had their hills and mountain valleys because the Skalans didn’t want them yet.
On the fourth morning he prepared to take his leave. He’d dreamed of Lhel again the night before and she was impatient for him to move on, but to the north again, not south.
Irman gave him food and clothes to help him move better along his journey. Their tunics and trousers fit closer than his loose shirt and leggings, and they weren’t sewn with any charms. Mahti sewed some on the inside of the tunic, and kept his elk and bear tooth necklace and bracelets. He accepted a Skalan knife, too, and hid his own in a cloth bag with the food they’d given him.
“What about your horn?” Irman asked as Mahti fitted it into its cloth sling. Mahti just winked. It was easy enough to make people not see it if he chose.
“Now can I tell that I am Zengat?” he asked, grinning.
“Better than saying what you are, I guess,” Irman said. “Are you sure you have to do this ‘sojourn’ of yours? You’d be better off heading home.”
“The goddess will help me.” He didn’t tell him about Lhel. Southlanders didn’t understand the dead.
He walked south until he was out of their sight, then turned north all that day and the next, and the forest grew thinner. He could see over the tops of the trees in places, to an endless expanse of flatland. It was green, and dotted with forests and lakes. He hurried on, anxious to see what it was like to walk in such a place, with the sky so wide overhead.
He went on like this for three days, when his feet brought him to a wide river. There were many villages and farms, and herds of cattle and horses.
He could not swim, so he waited for darkness to look for a way across the water. The moon rose full and white in a clear sky, so bright his shadow showed sharp and black on the dew-laden grass.
He had almost reached the river when he met a new group of southlanders. He’d just left the safety of a small wood and was striding across the moon-bright meadow when suddenly he heard voices. Three men ran out of the dark wood and made straight for him. Mahti dropped his traveling sack and pulled the oo’lu from its sling, holding it loosely in one hand.
The men came on, letting out cries that were probably intended to frighten him. Mahti’s fingers tightened on the smooth wood of the oo’lu, but he was smiling.
The men drew swords as they came close. They smelled dirty and their clothes were ragged.
“You!” the tallest one hailed him roughly. “I can smell the food in your bag from here. Hand it over.”
“I need my food,” Mahti replied.
“Bilairy’s balls, where you from, talking like you got a mouthful of stones?”
It took Mahti a moment to puzzle out what the man was asking. “Zengat.”
“Fuck me, a Zengat, way down here all by his self!” one of the others exclaimed, stepping closer.
“You not fight me,” Mahti warned. “I wish not to harm any.”
“Well ain’t that sweet?” the tall one growled, closing in. “And what you going to ‘harm’ us with? That walking stick? I don’t see no sword on your belt, friend.”
Mahti cocked his head, curious. “You call me ‘friend’ but voice and sword say ‘enemy.’ Go away, you. I will go my own way in peace.”
They were almost close enough to strike. Mahti sighed. He’d given fair warning. Raising the oo’lu to his lips, he blew a catamount cry at them. His attackers sprang back in surprise, as he’d hoped.
“Balls, what were that?” the third one said. He sounded much younger than the other two.
“You go,” Mahti warned again. “I kill you if you don’t.”
“That ain’t no Zengat,” the leader growled. “We got us a filthy little hill witch here. That’s one of them fancy bullroarers. Cut his throat before he gets up to mischief!”
Before they could attack Mahti began the drone of the bees. They stopped again, and this time they dropped their weapons and grabbed their heads in pain. The young one fell to his knees, screaming.
Mahti played louder, watching the other two fall writhing to the ground. The blood that burst from their ears and noses looked black in the moonlight. If they were innocent men, the magic would not hurt them so. Only the guilty with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands reacted like this. Mahti played on, louder and stronger until all three stopped thrashing and crying out and lay still in the grass. He changed to the song he’d used to lift the souls out of the bodies of Teolin and Irman’s old wife, and played over the body of the leader. This time, however, he ended it with a sharp raven’s croak that severed the thin thread of spirit that tethered the soul to the body. He did the same with the man in the hat, but let the boy live. He was young enough that perhaps this life hadn’t been his choice.
The spirits of the two dead men flittered around the bodies like angry bats. Mahti left them to find whatever afterlife southlanders had and continued on his way without a backward glance.
The weather around the isthmus was always unpredictable, but even here, summer finally arrived with warmer days and softer winds. The coarse grass above the cliffs came to life, looking like a strip of green velvet stretched between the blue and silver seas on either side. Small flowers carpeted the waysides and even grew from the cracks in the stonework along the walls and in the courtyards.
Riding along the cliffs with Korin and the Companions, Lutha tried to find hope in the new season. Rumors still came thick and fast from the south, carried by the shaken warlords and nobles.
A sprawling encampment was slowly spreading over the flat ground before the fortress, nearly five thousand men in all. It wasn’t only cavalry and foot, either. Fifteen stout ships under the command of Duke Morus of Black Stag Harbor rode at anchor in Cirna harbor. By all reports, Tobin had only the few that had survived the Plenimaran raid.
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