Chapter 21

Unknown, the Dreaming Green

It seemed, when the world came swimming back, that a thousand bees were buzzing inside Hult's skull. He groaned, lifting a hand to place on his forehead. His body responded sluggishly, aching. His mouth was dry and his tongue was thick and swollen. Where am I? he wondered. What happened?

Then he remembered the arrows. Remembered them entering his body. Not killing shots, but enough to bring him down. Elf-shot arrows. The pain had been incredible. Now, though, he felt nothing. No lancing agony that flared with every breath. No strange sensation of something in his body, of wood rubbing against his muscles, or of steel grinding on his bones. Biting his lip, he reached to where the second arrow had gone in, just below his collarbone. His fingers found bare skin and a hard knot where the shaft had been. A scar. Someone had healed him.

"Who—" he mumbled, trying to sit up.

"Be still!"

He froze, recognizing Chovuk's voice. The voice, and the feeling in it. The Boyla sounded tense and troubled. Afraid? Not a thought Hult would dare speak aloud… but yes, there was something fearful in how his master spoke.

"Do not move!" Chovuk called out again. "Listen to me. It will take you if you get up now."

Hult could hear something else now—the low, gurgling hiss of something very large. It was no animal he knew, no beast of the plains. It was, he thought, almost like a dragon… but not quite. Reptile, definitely. He heard the leathery scrape of scales against… sand? Yes, he was lying on sand. Strange. He could still smell the trees and flowers of the Dreaming Green.

It took a moment for him to find the courage to look. Finally he managed it. He was lying on his back on a floor of fine white sand… on the floor of a pit? Yes, that was it. A deep pit—five men on each other's shoulders couldn't reach its top. It had stone walls, and the shadows of pines encircled it above. The elves had built it, he was sure… and a breath later, he saw the proof. There, dimly lit by the stars, were the merkitsa—dozens of elves, ringing the upper lip of the pit. They were strange looking creatures, with long, braided hair dyed bright colors, red, green, and gold. Their tunics and breeches were just as vibrant and were embroidered with scenes of animals and hunters. Their limbs were long and slender, their chins and noses pointed, and their eyes slanted and pale. Large silver plugs were set in their earlobes, and their cheeks and foreheads were daubed with paint, making whorls and jagged lines and tiger-stripes. They stood utterly silent and expressionless, watching like the ancient stone statues that dotted the Tamire.

Hult had never been so frightened in his life.

He saw Chovuk a moment later… not down on the sand as he'd expected, but up on the rim with the elves! The Boyla stood between two of the most gaudily arrayed of the merkitsa, an older and a younger elf who looked too alike to be anything but father and son. Even in his dazed, confused state, Hult recognized them as the heads of whatever clan had captured them. But why was Chovuk with them? Wasn't he their prisoner, too?

Another low, hissing growl startled him and brought him back to the immediate danger. Holding his breath, he glanced up and over his shoulder, taking care not to move too quickly. When he saw what was there, he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out.

The first thing he made out in the dim light was teeth. A great many of them, in fact, long and sharp as spearheads and curving wickedly back along a long, blunt-tipped snout. It had scales, too—the colors of rust and sun-bleached bone, mottled in uneven patches. It had a short neck and a thick body with a long, whiplike tail. All of the creature was knobby and uneven, more like rock than flesh to the eye. The creature had squinting, stupid, hungry eyes set high on its reptilian head. And in place of legs, where they might be found on a lizard, it had flippers tipped with spurs of glistening horn. The thing had to be more than seven paces long… maybe as many as ten, snout to tail-tip. The stink of its breath, hot metal and rancid blood, made his nose burn and his eyes water.

Hatori, the creature was called. Hult had heard tales of it on his youthful journey into the deserts of Panak. Such creatures dwelt in the sands, lying half-submerged, pretending to be outcroppings of stone, then snatching up prey that strayed too close. The beasts grew huge in the wild wastes, as much as sixty paces in length, large enough to swallow whole caravans. This one was young, probably only a few years out of the egg—still large enough to bite him in half, though. The merkitsa must have caught it as a hatchling and brought it here to use for… public amusement. Throwing outsiders into its pit to enjoy the slaughter. There were the cracked bones of previous victims strewn on the floor of the pit.

Hult stared at the monster and realized he was going to die there. Part of him wished he hadn't woken, that while he'd been unconscious those fangs had ripped him apart. He thrust such thoughts aside, ashamed. He was Uigan. He would fight. He would not let the hatori slay him without a struggle. He looked around, seeking a weapon. He was unsurprised to see that he was completely naked, without even a breechcloth to cover his manhood. He would have been amazed to see anything like a sword in the pit with him. No, there was nothing useful… even his dragon-claw necklace, which he'd never taken off since becoming a man, was gone.

The hatori hissed, inching forward. Hult had to do something soon.

"Be careful," cautioned Chovuk from above. "No sudden moves, tenach, if you value your life."

Sound advice, Hult thought wryly—as close as he'd come to sarcasm in his life. Slowly, he sat up, tucked his legs under himself, and twisted smoothly to his feet. His braid, unbound, spilled down over his shoulders as he faced the beast. It was two paces away, the countless sharp teeth glistening.

Great Jijin, Hult prayed. Let me survive this and I will burn the fat of twenty goats in your name. I will take the heads of a hundred enemies. I only wish to keep my life.

He took a step back. The hatori hissed and wriggled toward him, its flippers pushing it along. Its tail lashed behind it, throwing up sprays of sand. He had nowhere to go, but kept moving away, never once taking his eyes off the creature. Its gaze was malevolent in a dull-witted way: the beast craved meat and reveled in the kill. The elves probably kept their pet hungry, to make sure it was always ready for prey.

"What do I do?" he called, as loudly as he dared. "Master?"

"Just keep moving. But don't rim. They have promised to give you your shuk if you survive a hundred-count."

"Ah," Hult said. "And what is the count now?"

"Twenty-three."

Hult swore inwardly. The hatori kept pace with him, always a breath away from charging forward. He backed up and started to turn to his right when he sensed a wall behind him. If the beast cornered him and pinned him against the stone, if he tripped over anything, it was over. If he spooked it, if he let it get too close, if it simply got the urge to strike… .

He shook his head, clearing such thoughts. Just keep moving, he told himself. Don't think of anything else.

"Forty," said the Boyla.

Hult kept moving and turned enough to see the tunnel on the pit's far side, which no doubt led to the hatori's lair. A grate of fire-hardened wood was raised on cords of sinew. Gnawed skulls—some of men, others of larger beings, with sloped foreheads—rested in niches to either side. The merkitsa had been feeding their pet well and the sight made him shiver. If it had killed the First People, the Abaqua ogres who lived in the mountains to the east, he was in a lot of trouble.

"Sixty," Chovuk intoned, as Hult too counted silently.

At seventy-one, it happened: a cracked bone, halfburied in the sand. He stepped on it and felt it dig into the sole of his left foot, felt it break the skin. He stumbled, nearly fell, and caught himself—but there was blood on the sand, and its scent was in the air. The hatori tensed, a row of scales on the back of its neck standing up. Its jaws parted, ropes of green spittle hanging from its teeth. A roar, a noise like tearing metal, burst from its mouth.

"Run!" the Boyla yelled.

But Hult couldn't run very well. His foot was hurt and bleeding, the bone still stuck in his flesh. Even if it hadn't been, fear would have slowed him. It stiffened every joint in his body. He could only stare, his mouth gaping in a voiceless scream, as the hatori threw itself at him.

Sheer luck kept his next breath from being his last. The monster's jaws snapped shut an eyeblink too soon. The front fangs grazed his leg, drawing yet more blood from a long gash. A moment later, the monster's full weight smashed into him, bearing him to the pit's floor. The breath exploded from his lungs as it slammed him to the ground. Its scales scratched his body, opening more small cuts. It bellowed, mad with the stink of blood. Its maw opened and snapped shut on the air, then turned toward Hult again, hovering over his face.

Hult groped to both sides, clawing at the sands. The hatori was too heavy to heave off of himself and too strong to wrestle. He had to find something… anything that might help. "Eighty-five," he heard. He would have his sword soon… if he could keep the thing from ripping his head off first.

At last, after what seemed like hours, his groping fingers found a long, thick bone: the upper arm of an ogre. He seized it, brought it around, and clouted the hatori on the side of the head. Not hard enough to do any real harm—but it still surprised the creature. The hatori made a hacking sound, then its eyes narrowed and its jaws spread wide again.

Hult moved quickly, jamming the bone between the creature's fangs and lower jaw. Let the monster's bite do the rest, he thought desperately, as the hatori clamped down.

The bone bent and splintered a little, but didn't break. The hatori bellowed, its jaws wedged open, tossing its head back and forth. Wildly, Hult punched and kicked at the monster… found another bone and pounded away. The weight lifted off him, enough for him to squirm away. He was covered in blood and cut in a dozen places. He limped away, his injured foot blazing, as the hatori thrashed behind him. There was a cracking sound as the bone finally gave way.

"One hundred!" Chovuk cried. "Tenach!"

Something flew down from above, hit the sand pointfirst, and stuck there, quivering. His shuk. Hult dived for it. He heard the hatori wriggling after him, snarling in rage at having been outmaneuvered thus far. Hult hit the ground flat out and reached for the blade—then, in a moment of agony like he'd never felt before, the hatori's maw snapped shut on his leg.

He grabbed his sword, screaming, and whipped around. He didn't look at his leg. He couldn't bear the sight that went with the awful, sawing pain. In another instant the beast's fangs would grind through his shin, then tear the limb from his body. Bellowing, he thrust his shuk at its face, directly in its eye.

The hatori shrieked, nearly yanking the sword from his grip, then almost broke his wrist when he held on. It jerked its head this way and that until the sword came free, leaving a ruined, gelatinous hole where its eye had been. In its agony it released his leg and Hult pulled away, rolling across the sand to get away from the beast. It squealed a while longer and he took the time to stand up again. He couldn't put any weight on his injured leg. He could feel that it was held together only by a ravaged bone and a fewstrips of flesh. He ignored the crippling wound, brought his shuk up, and leaped forward, swinging it with all his strength.

The blow caught the monster directly in the middle of its snout. Steel sheared through scales, flesh… bone. Half the monster's mouth fell away and black blood sprayed everywhere, darkening the sand. He stabbed the hatori again, this time in the other eye. Blind and mutilated, the creature wailed piteously. Above, Hult heard the creak of bowstrings: several elven archers had pulled their weapons out, ready to put the beast out of its misery.

Hult held up a hand. "He is mine!" he called angrily.

Wondering, the merkitsa bowmen relaxed again. Hult hopped forward—not using his half-severed leg—then reversed his grip on his shuk and brought it down on the spot where the hatori's skull met its spine. Its cries stopped and it fell limp. It let out its final breath as a whimper.

All was silent. He looked up. The elves remained still, their painted faces devoid of emotion. The archers held their arrows upon their strings and for an instant he thought they might now aim at him instead. But that moment passed and they did nothing, and his eyes moved on to where Chovuk stood. The Boyla was smiling, his face aglow with pride. Hult found he couldn't return the smile. He thought of the Wretched Ones' hideous king, deep beneath Mount Xagal, and how the two of them had fought that monster together. This time, though, Chovuk had left him to fight the hatori alone, unarmed and naked. And he had nearly died.

The shuk fell from his hand onto the sands. He looked down at the ruin of his leg. There was blood everywhere, and more pouring from the wound. He felt the strength draining from his body. He sat down heavily, the world blurring, and leaned back. He rested against the hatori's scaly hide, bowed his head, and shut his eyes.

When he woke again, he lay in a shaded bower on a bed of bearskins over pine boughs. Sunshine and blue sky peeked between the branches overhead. Birds sang and a brook babbled nearby, out of sight. The scent of lavender hung in the air.

My leg, he thought, remembering what had happened. He tried to sit up and looked down. Woolen blankets covered his body. He could feel his foot, but he'd known warriors who'd lost limbs in raids. There were a few in every tribe, and often they spoke of ghost-pains, the sense that a missing part was still there. He reached out and tried to pull back the blankets, but couldn't find the strength to lift his arms. Gods, he ached… .

"Here, tenach ,"said a voice to his right. "Let me."

Chovuk Boyla sat at his side. Gently, he reached out and pulled back the blankets. Hult caught his breath, anticipating the sourness of bile… then his gorge receded again when he saw his leg. It was still there, intact, the flesh white and ridged where the hatori had nearly ripped it off. Like the arrow wounds, it was miraculously healed.

"The merkitsa" said Chovuk. "They themselves healed your wounds. You did well, Hult. Won honor for yourself and for me. The elves would have killed me if you failed. I staked my life on you, and you did not let me down."

Hult felt a flush of pride, which quickly abated. "You could have killed the hatori easily, had you fought for yourself," he said. "If you'd changed into the tiger. Why me?"

"Because I could not!" Chovuk snapped, then looked away. His face turned dark. "Because you interrupted before the Teacher could give me the power to change my skin again. Because you meddled, you nearly died—and I with you. So do not try to lay blame on me, tenach. I let you fight because I had to, and to teach you a lesson—never interrupt again when the Teacher and I are communing."

Hult sat silently, ashamed. Ashamed of himself, for having doubted Chovuk's courage—but of Chovuk as well. He had no doubt the robed figure he'd attacked in the pool the night the elves captured them was a servant of darkness. No uncertainty that it was evil. And his master was in league with this evil, had used the powers it granted to him all these months to become Boyla, to win the alliance with the goblins, to defeat the Kazar, and to throw down the walls of Malton. And he would use the evil again when the time came to cross the Tiderun. He looked away, hoping the disappointment and dismay in his face didn't show.

"There, tenach, do not hate yourself," the Boyla said, misunderstanding. "You did not know about the Teacher. I should have told you myself, but… I did not know how. It must seem strange to you, to see me consorting with such a man. But I ask you to trust me. This is the way to victory and glory for our people. Look at what we have already gained by it!"

"Yes, master," Hult said, nodding dully. "What happens to us now?"

"Now we are free to go, when you are mended—and to take with us what we came for," said Chovuk, smiling.

He turned, looking behind him. Two figures emerged from the shadows beneath the trees: the two elves he'd been standing beside at the fighting-pit, elder and younger, kin. They looked even stranger up close: feral, like wild cats. They were taut as bowstrings, but their faces—both painted with crimson stripes—showed no emotion at all, even when they bobbed their heads before them.

"This is Tho-ket, chieftain of the Singing Rain clan," said Chovuk, nodding at the elder, who steepled his fingers before him and said something in a language that sounded like the twittering of birds. "And his son, Eldako."

The younger elf stepped forward, also saying something unintelligible. His hair was the color of flame, and it hung in braids to his waist. He wore a breastplate made from some giant insect's shell, iridescent and shimmering in the daylight, with a longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back. Solemnly the younger elf pressed his fingers against his throat, then reached out to touch Hult's. Hult smiled, understanding it was a show of respect. He had impressed the merkitsa by slaying their dangerous beast in the pit.

"Eldako will be riding with us, back south," Chovuk explained. "Tho-ket has granted him leave to join the horde."

Hult blinked, staring at his master in shock. "Just him?" he exclaimed. "We rode all this way and nearly died in these accursed lands… all for one elf?"

Eldako said something, and Tho-ket bristled too. "This one elf is best archer in all Tamire," said the chieftain in halting Uigan. "Is my son I give. You should be glad, and not asking more."

Hult flushed, lowering his eyes: he hadn't realized the elves could understand him. "I am sorry."

"It is all right, tenach" Chovuk said. "You do not understand, and that is well. But know that we will need Eldako's bow when we cross the Run. And perhaps before then, as well."

The Soyla turned to Tho-ket and spoke a few words in the merkitsa language. Hult supposed he should have been surprised by this ability, but he wasn't. Nothing about his master surprised him any more.

"We will leave you now," said Chovuk, turning back to Hult. "Rest. You will need your strength again soon. We ride south on the morrow, we three. And from there, to the League and victory."

They left then, his master and the two elves, disappearing into the woods. Hult lay back on the pine-bough bed, the peace of the woods all around him, and shuddered. He had never felt so unsettled. His master was a thrall of evil. He knew that now. He was not the man he'd once been.

But what of it? He was tenach, sworn on his life to protect Chovuk. Hult lay there a long time, thinking.