Jory was the first to see the cloud.
The day had dawned, as did every day in the village of Tiey'kal, clear and bright. The baker and her apprentices had been up before the sun, filling the air with the fragrant smells of yeast and woodsmoke. Each house sent a child to pick up their allotment of the day's bread, while tea was brewed and people readied themselves for the morning's labor in the fields. That was the cycle, the way things had been since the kaer was opened twenty years ago, and the way they would always be.
Jory sighed. At the age of ten, he was already bored out of his mind. Everyone else seemed to like the monotony, even thrive on it. There had to be more to life than this. He sighed again, leaning on the windowsill of the room he shared with his two older brothers. Jerriv had gone to the baker's, and Tevin was talking about the crops with their father, leaving him alone for a few minutes -- the only time he would have any privacy for the entire day, except for the occasional visit to the necessary. Most of the time, he was kept too busy to have time to reflect on his situation. Mornings, however, were bad.
He pushed his curly brown hair out of his eyes, and rested his chin, once more on his hands. Haircut, he thought. I need a haircut. It's a dismal life when the high point of your existence is getting your hair trimmed.
"Jory!" His mother's voice echoed down the hall from the kitchen. "Breakfast!"
With one final sigh, he roused himself from the windowsill and went to join his family at the table.
"Jory!"
"Hm?" He shook himself out of his reverie, hoping that Jerriv hadn't called his name more than once. Jerriv got very impatient when he had to repeat himself. Jory leaned on his hoe and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What, Jerriv?"
His brother loomed over him like a stormcloud, dark and angry. "Where is your mind? Look what you're doing!" He stabbed his finger at the ground by Jory's feet.
Jory looked down. Oh, no. He'd cut down a bean plant along with the weeds he was hoeing. That meant a long lecture on the need to be careful, how difficult it was to grow food when it really wasn't, and anything he said would just get him into more trouble. Sometimes Jory thought Jerriv was just as bored as he was, and took it out on his younger brother.
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to grow food even without your clumsy mistakes?" Jerriv began. Not expecting an answer, he drew breath to continue, but Jory pointed out toward the horizon behind him. "What?" Jerriv asked, irritated with the interruption.
"Look." Jory nodded in the direction he was indicating.
"What?" Jerriv looked, but did not see. "What could possibly have distracted you so badly that you're putting our food supply in peril?"
Jory sighed. "Jerriv, don't you see it?"
"See what?" His brother was beginning to suspect that this was some sort of pointless delaying tactic.
"The cloud." Jory emphasized the word, poking his finger at the item in question.
Jerriv squinted. Cloud? Of course there were clouds. There were always clouds, just like it always rained after supper. That was the cycle of their lives. Breakfast, fields, lunch, fields, supper, indoor chores because it was raining -- wait. What was that? He frowned.
Jory mistook the frown of concentration for increasing annoyance. "Jerriv, it's there, really."
Jerriv waved him off. "Right, right." The horizon showed an unusual smudge, like the ground blending with the sky, like --
Like a dust cloud. A plume rising up from the ground. This was something different, and in Jerriv' experience, different was bad.
"Stay here," he ordered his younger brother, "and don't do anything. Better to have you idle than to lose another bean plant." And with that, he was off across the rows, calling for Tevin.
Jory leaned contentedly on his hoe, doing exactly as he had been ordered -- nothing. This was good. Not only was something new happening, but he was the one who had seen it first, and now he was being allowed, no, being ordered to lay idle. Jerriv may have meant it as a punishment, may have meant to belittle him with the order, but to Jory it seemed liked a reward, a break from work for spotting the unusual thing. What did it mean, though?
Jerriv spoke with Tevin, pointing out the cloud. They both squinted at it, arguing about it with broad, sweeping gestures. Apparently Tevin didn't quite know what to do about it, either. They went off to find Papa, both of them forgetting completely about Jory. Well, that was all well and good, as far as Jory was concerned. He sat down cross-legged, laid the hoe across his lap, and prepared to obey his brother's order as annoyingly as possible.
Well, it looked like everyone had completely forgotten about him. Jory was laying on his stomach now, alternating between watching the commotion down on the village green and watching a large green beetle picking its way through the dirt clods. The green was more lively, but the beetle was closer, and he could affect the beetle directly, interfering with its progress by putting more dirt and weed stems in its way, then watch to see how the insect resolved its new difficulties.
The people down on the green were very excited. Perhaps he should go down there and find out what they were talking about -- but Jerriv had told him to stay here and do nothing. Would it be more fun to annoy his brother by doing exactly what he was told, or to find out what the argument was about? The dinner hour was approaching, anyway, at which time he would have to go back down to the village --
Wait a minute. Why was everyone getting the harvesting tools out? It was months until the crops would be ready. And was there a big storm coming? If not, why were all the shutters being closed? He checked the clouds. No, they looked no different than usual, other than the brown one, which had gotten bigger and closer steadily over the past hour. Maybe that was some sort of nasty storm? But if a storm was coming, why was everyone out on the green, sharpening their scythes and hoes?
Maybe he had better go see what was going on, since it looked like Jerriv had forgotten him. It wasn't any fun being annoying if nobody noticed what you were doing. Jory levered himself to his feet with the hoe, the beetle forgotten, and took one last look off at the approaching dust cloud before heading down the hill from the bean field to the village. Was that rain underneath the cloud? Something dark, and moving --
Then the individual shapes resolved. Riders, big people on huge beasts like giant lizards, racing toward the village like the waves the storyteller said came up on the beach at the end of the river. And there were so many of them. So many, the dust they kicked up was the cloud he had seen.
Jory glanced down to the village. The grown-ups were all marching off to meet the riders, it looked like, and the other kids were being herded indoors. There was his mother, rounding up his sisters, and looking for him. If he wanted to see what was going on, he'd have to hide somewhere his mother couldn't see him. Only one place, the apple orchard at the edge of the field.
Quickly, Jory moved off toward the trees, moving back from the crest of the hill so as not to silhouette himself against the sky and make it easier for his mother to spot him and call him in, but not so far he couldn't see the grown-ups with the harvesting tools going out to meet the visitors. Could this be trouble after all? The storyteller said that strangers could not be trusted, because they could be marked by a Horror, but how could a Horror control so many? In all the stories, it was the lone wanderer you had to be careful of, the person who turned up with nobody to speak for him. People who showed up in large groups were okay. Hadn't those dwarf soldiers been okay? That was years ago, but they kicked up a dust cloud when they marched, not as big as these riders, but there were lots of them, all strangers, and Papa had said they were good to have around. And the Book said dwarfs were good people, and the Book had been right.
Up the tree, then, and into the foliage, the hoe left discarded on the ground. Now he could see over the village roofs to where the grown-ups were lined up, holding their tools and waiting for the riders, and his mother couldn't see him. She gave up looking for him and shooed his sisters into the house, darting quick glances in the direction of the cloud. Something must have upset Momma pretty bad. No time to think about that now, though. Any concern over the worry he was no doubt causing his mother washed away in the excitement of getting to see what happened when the riders arrived.
Then they were upon the grown-ups, huge people with grey skins and tusks, orks, dressed all in armor like the people in the Book, and they --
They had swords --
And they were killing the grown-ups.
Jory nearly stopped breathing in shock as the first blood spilled. That was what the harvesting tools were for. Not to bring in crops. To use on people. But the orks were so much better at it, and they had swords --
The sun had set. The fires in the village were dying as the roofs burned away. In the fitful remaining light, massive shadows moved between the buildings. At least the screaming had finally stopped. Thank the Passions for that.
Jory's stomach rumbled yet again. Lunch was a faint memory, and the dinner hour had been taken up with things he's rather not think about right now. The orchard was still blossoming, nowhere near to setting on fruit, much less having anything edible hanging from the branches. And he had to use the necessary.
Maybe it was dark enough they wouldn't see him. Maybe he could get away off through the orchard to the stream behind the hill. If he got that far, he could at least get a drink, and the fields on the other side of the stream would have something he could eat. Just have to get that far, and then --
Then what? Go where? Papa said it was dangerous to leave the village, that you couldn't trust the roads to be safe, that Horrors were still lurking out there. But what could he do here? His house had been raided, and he didn't remember seeing anybody come out before the orks went in.
Jory stifled a sob, afraid of the noise and the attention it might bring. One thing at a time, like Papa said, don't get ahead of yourself. Down the tree, careful, careful, don't snap a branch or fall. That would be bad. Down to the ground, and a quick peek around the trunk. There were tents on the fields out between the village and the river, and fires among them, and those big orks were sitting around the fires having dinner. How could you eat after doing something like that? His stomach answered him with a rumble. Good times or bad, you had to eat. Well, if they were eating, and drinking too maybe, then they wouldn't notice one small boy up in the orchard going away.
Moving quietly, Jory made his way through the trees and down to the stream. On this side of the hill, you really couldn't tell that anything was wrong, except for the glow of the open fires. That was different. The village would have had a yellow glow from the lamps on the street, and the occasional white or blue spark of light quartz up on a pole, salvaged from the kaer. Tonight the light coming over the hill was reddish and flickering, like the glow from the time the forest had caught fire from a lightning strike, and everybody had to go out to the edge of the fields and dig ditches all night and all day to keep the flames from getting the crops.
It was hard, but Jory tore his gaze away and concentrated on getting across the stream without making any noise. Once a rock turned under his foot, but he caught himself with only a little splash. On the other side, he stood for a minute, dripping from the hems of his trousers and his left tunic cuff, waiting to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody came over the hill, so he went on up the bank and into the fields beyond.
A short time later, his stomach full of young carrots and greens, and the dirt washed from between his teeth with another trip to the stream, he sat down underneath a tree at the edge of the field to think. He'd gotten this far okay by tending to the needs of the moment, but now he was stuck. The obvious next thing to do was a place to sleep. In the morning, maybe the orks with the swords would go away and he could go see what was left of the village, but tonight he needed someplace to sleep. No blanket, no bed out here. What to do?
He roughly wiped away a tear from his cheek. He was too big for that. In just four more years, he'd be expected to either apprentice to one of the tradespeople in the village, or start looking for a patch of land to clear for his own field. He could take care of himself pretty well already. Problem was, taking care of himself sort of required that some things be readily available, like a baker's apprentice to wheedle for a sweet roll, or a closet to get a blanket from, or a barn with hay in it to take a nap in, and those things were all back in the village. Nobody had taught him about getting things out in the wild. He didn't know many grown-ups who even knew about such things, other than the goatherds, and they were all days away with the flocks. Everybody pretty much kept to the village, and the travelling merchants came to them with the things they couldn't make or grow themselves. There had been no need to leave the village, and so no need to learn how to survive outside it.
Over and over throughout the night, Jory woke up reaching for the blanket, chilled and uncomfortable, only to realize that there was no blanket. Each time, he did his best to make himself comfortable on the cold and uneven ground, pulling clods out from underneath himself, wrapping his arms tightly and pulling his legs close to conserve heat. Each time, he cried himself back asleep, the tears growing less and the span shorter with each awakening.
The sun surprised Jory into wakefulness, blinking away dreams best forgotten as he moved his head out of the way of a sunbeam that found its way through the leaves and into his eyes. He rolled his head, listening to his spine crackle as he tried not to think about how stiff and sore he was from sleeping on the ground with no blanket.
Sounds from the other side of the hill came faintly to him, shouts, large animals, movement. With luck, that meant the orks were leaving. He eased himself to his feet, wincing at a pain in his knee where a rock had dug in. Breakfast? No bakery, that meant no bread. Jory guessed that it wouldn't hurt him to have fruit and vegetables for breakfast, but it didn't sound very exciting. In the storyteller's tales, the heroes usually had travel rations packed for them, or hunted their supper and had fresh meat roasted over an open fire. Sometimes the stories didn't say much about food. Now he thought he knew why. In those stories, people got caught by surprise and had to scrape up what they could in the way of things to eat. That wouldn't make a very good story.
It made a worse breakfast. His stomach grumbled and muttered so loudly he was worried the orks on the other side of the hill would hear it and come looking for him. My stomach, the horrible monster. He laughed in spite of the discomfort, and went to the stream for a drink, then across and up the hill.
From the orchard, he looked out to the plain first, not wanting to see the village just yet. The orks were packing up their tents, loading them onto the giant lizards along with lots of bags and bundles. That one was made out of Anna's blanket, and the one next to it was the storyteller's old travelling cloak. Seeing these familiar things drew his eye back to the base of the hill, and the remains of his home. The fires were mostly out, only a little smolder here and there, a thin trickle of smoke rising from behind the baker's where the woodpile had been, another from the storyteller's -- oh, no, all the scrolls, the Book --
Jory angrily dashed a tear from his eye. He was too old for crying all the time like that, and there was too much to do. Wait until the orks were gone, since it looked like they were, indeed, leaving, then go see if there was anybody left alive down in the village. After that -- well, he'd worry about that when it came. One step at a time, like Papa said.
Please let Papa be all right.
The afternoon light picked out terrible details as Jory made his cautious way into the village. Most of the buildings were still standing, but were reduced to hollow, smoking shells. The roofs and the insides had burned, but the walls had survived. Like an eggshell, Jory thought, all the stuff that made it what it was gone. Every so often, a dry crackling came from one building or another as something not quite burnt caught, and there would be another tattered streamer of smoke rising into the late morning light. And then there were the bodies.
After the first few, Jory's heart went numb and his tears dried. There were just so many, he couldn't feel sad for all of them. How could you mourn an entire village? One person at a time was hard enough, but all at once? The enormity of it overwhelmed him, left him feeling little better than the buildings, gutted and smoldering.
No telling if one of the big orks with the swords might still be here, looking for something more to carry away. He took a better grip on the hoe he'd retrieved from the bean field. It probably wouldn't do much good -- hadn't for all the grown-ups who'd gone out to fight the orks -- but carrying it made him feel a little better. As if somehow he could still do something that would make a difference. Maybe not to change the way things were, but at least to make someone remember that there had once been a village here.
At the center of the village was the green, with the assembly stage at the south end, and the well at the north. Little remained of the stage save for its foundation stones, the ones that took lots of people to lift. The smaller rocks had been pulled loose and used to make fire rings. The boards were all gone, the stage where town meetings were held and where the elders stood probably used for firewood by the orks. The grass was all gone too, trampled into bare dirt or eaten by the orks' animals. Around the well, the ground had been churned into mud, still drying, still holding the marks of huge boots with metal studs in the soles, and spurs on the heels. Jory knew what spurs were, even though he'd only seen them in pictures that Gannon had showed him. The storyteller had told him that spurs were for making animals run faster. It seemed to Jory a cruel way to ask for more speed. Better just to flap the reins and cluck your tongue. Papa said that animals worked harder for you when you didn't hurt them.
There was no trace of Papa or his brothers at the green. Jory had lost sight of them in the crowd, before all the men and the women who weren't mothers went off to the low fields to meet the orks. He'd hoped maybe Papa or Jerriv or Tevin might have stayed behind, but if they had, they weren't here. Nobody was here. The green was eerily vacant, empty, devoid even of bodies. Being here sent a shiver down Jory's back, made him think that everybody had been eaten by a Horror or something instead of being killed with swords. Which was worse, though, since you were still dead?
The well had been dipped dry, Jory discovered when he tried to raise a bucket for a drink. Fed by an underground spring, the well would fill up again in another day or two, like it had after the bakery caught fire three years ago and everybody lined up to pass buckets from the well to the fire. For now, though, he'd have to go back up the hill and down the other side to the stream if he wanted a drink. At least the stream never ran dry at this time of year. Later on, toward Year's Turning, sometimes it ran low or even stopped.
Jory himself stopped, wondering at the way his thoughts were running. Everybody he knew was dead, so far as he knew, and here he was worrying about getting a drink. Weren't there more important things to worry about?
There were, but they scared him. Taking a minute to gather up his courage, telling himself that it couldn't possibly be any worse than anything he'd already seen, Jory left the green and marched off resolutely for his home.
It could be worse. It could be lots worse.
Jory sat on the steps of his house and cried, great racking sobs that shook his entire body and squeezed out all the air, so that he had to gasp and wheeze for breath between spasms. Behind him, in the hall leading to the kitchen lay his mother. A splash of blood on the wall above her marked where her head had struck, the bruises and rips on her face telling where a mailed fist had landed. Her body had been unceremoniously kicked out of the way, and lay crumpled to one side of the hall. Beyond, the kitchen was a shambles of broken furniture, smashed crockery and the remains of food the raiders hadn't taken with them. All the work his mother put into keeping the kitchen clean, all the times she fussed at Jory for tracking mud across the ceramic tile floor, no wooden boards for her, no, and it was gone, destroyed in a single night.
The tears finally ran out, and Jory's chest slowed its heaving. He sat curled in a miserable little ball for a while longer until the hurt inside started to go numb again, then got up, wiped his face with the bottom edge of his tunic, and went back into the house. At least it hadn't been set afire like so many others had. None of the houses at the back end of town, towards the hill, had. Just rummaged through. It made him feel dirty, ashamed that strangers had been in here, poking and prying through his life.
From room to room he went, fearing and hoping to find traces of his sisters, one of his brothers, anyone. No blood, no bodies. Smashed furniture, broken glass, splintered woodwork, and in one room, cast up in the corner from the ocean of debris, the corn dolly his youngest sister carried everywhere. Jory picked it up reverently, smoothing down the bent husks, straightening the skirt of woven grasses his mother had plaited for it. For Jenna to give this up -- someone much larger than her had taken it from her. She would never have laid it aside willingly, would have fought, screamed, like she did the time Barrik had snatched it from her on the green. The bully had not reckoned on the savagery of a young girl separated from something she loved, and when Tevin had intervened, it was mostly to pull Jenna off Barrik. She'd split the older boy's lip and bloodied his nose, and he walked with a limp for a week from where she'd kicked him in the shin. Whoever had taken this from her had surely paid for the deed in blood, no matter how big, no matter if he had a sword.
Still holding the dolly, Jory moved into the last room, his own. Like the rest, it had been turned upside down, things smashed out of malice or perhaps frustration when the raiders discovered nothing that they valued. Clearing a space on the remains of his sleeping pallet, one end torn open and bleeding goosedown across the floor, he eased himself down and sat for a while, thinking, rocking, unconsciously hugging the corn dolly.
Remaining here just wasn't possible. The crops would come in, and there would be fruit and vegetables, but he didn't know much about taking care of the livestock. Besides, he couldn't kill a cow or a pig by himself. He wasn't sure if he could do it with help. Somehow the idea of killing, even if it meant the difference between food and none, just wouldn't stay in his brain. No, he had to go find another village that would take him in. He hoped they would, and not mistake him for someone Horror touched out of a kaer. He'd have to find somebody he'd heard about, somebody who would have heard of his village, who would know enough about where he came from that he could convince them he was safe to take in.
That didn't leave many places, but at least they were all close. He'd have to pack up a lot of stuff to make the trip, though, especially since he wasn't really sure what he'd need. Maybe he should look around for stuff the raiders had missed, that he could take along and use to buy his way in. With a lot of luck, maybe there'd be a mule or a pony that had run off and would come back when the smell of smoke was gone and it got hungry. He could manage a pony, or a mule if he got a big stick, and he could carry a lot more stuff with an animal.
Tucking the corn dolly into the flap of his tunic, he got up and headed purposefully out of the house. His Papa said the best way to get over something bad was to work really hard, until you were too tired to be angry or sad any more.
A blanket from the loft lay piled with clothing and small tools, bits and pieces that might be needed. Next to it on the ground by the well were a few small bundles of coarse sacking, dried apples, cornmeal, a handful of small onions, new potatoes he'd dug that morning, and a bag of hard rolls he'd found beneath an overturned cupboard. All the previous day and most of this morning Jory had scavenged through the remains of the village, working his way methodically through the outlying houses and carting his finds to the green. It seemed like the right thing to do, using the well as his packing area. That way he could get a drink after each load, the well being still low but the water level rising enough to get up a bucket.
Near the well, munching idly on a half bale of hay Jory had carried with great difficulty from the shed up the hill, yet another out of the way spot the raiders had skipped over, stood a small shaggy grey pony, one of the mountain breed the goatherds rode when they moved the flocks. It had wandered into the village, just as Jory had hoped, and proved amenable to bribery with an apple, affirming Jory's belief that maybe the Passions were trying to keep an eye out for him. Coming up with tack was going to be a pain, though. The leatherworker's shop was in the center of the village, and like everything else there had been reduced to a smoking pile of rubble. The outlying sheds that the raiders had ignored held field tools and broken bits of junk that hadn't been worth carrying back to the village. He'd improvised a hackamore out of rope, but the rope was old and frayed and might not hold if the pony took it into his head to bolt. There was the possibility that one of the raiders might have dropped something in the process of loading their loot, but that meant going into the low fields where they'd been camped. Jory had avoided that and the battlefield both, as if not seeing it would keep it from being real.
There just wasn't any getting round it any more. He was going to have to go over there. Well, his Papa said that if you had something unpleasant to do, go on and get it over with without thinking about it. The more you thought about it, the worse it would be when you actually did it. He put down his most recent load, a rusty hatchet, a piece of whetstone, half a dozen candle stubs and a small crock of vinegar with pickling spices in it, and set out for the camp.
The route to the low fields took him past the houses of several of his friends, the unburned ones as mysteriously empty of bodies as his own, save for the occasional grown-up who had obviously put up a fight or deliberately gotten in the way. Where were the children, though? What had happened to his friends? To his sisters? He wished he'd watched more closely, had been able to watch instead of hiding while the orks left. Maybe they took his sisters, his friends. Maybe they ate them. Who really knew anything about orks, anyway? All Jory knew was what was in the Book of Tomorrow, and didn't Papa say to trust experience before a book?
The fields where the orks had camped, and beyond where the defense of the village had taken pace, spread out before him as he rounded the last house. Carrion birds circled over the further field briefly before stooping for a landing, each bird that dropped from the sky startling two more into the air. Where there had been rolling waves of grain just two days before now was trampled earth, like the green, still showing the marks of large animals, campfires, tent-peg holes, and the litter of people who cared nothing about the land. They didn't even have the decency to bury their garbage. Then the wind shifted, and Jory gagged. Spilled blood, rotting meat, animal droppings, decaying trash, and a sour sweaty odor like someone who'd been working in the fields all day and come to the supper table without bathing. The smell crawled inside his nose and slithered down into his throat, promising to stay with him for a long time.
Forcing his stomach back down where it belonged, and glad he'd decided to save the food he'd found for later, Jory headed out into the field, pausing to kick at each trashpile, every firepit, to see if anything useful had been left behind. He worked his way in a zigzag course across the field, drawn resistingly to the next, to the carnage, to the knowledge that he hoped and feared would be there. If he found his brothers, his Papa, he'd know what had happened to them, but they'd be dead. Which was worse, knowing they were dead or not knowing what had happened?
He'd found a couple of pieces of reins, old and weathered and in poor condition, but better than his rope hackamore, and coiled up the leather strips, hanging them from his belt. Another trash pile, a bright gleam that turned out to be a harness ring, and he found himself suddenly right on the edge of the barren strip between the camp and the battlefield. With a sudden lunge not entirely of his conscious choosing, he plunged into the narrow strip of bare earth as into a river in flood, wading across against a force that threatened to sweep him off his feet, to carry him away from the safe and the known and plunge him over the falls into the terrible knowledge of the rocks below.
Then he was across, and there was the first body, old Kavek the tinsmith, his face drawn into a nearly toothless snarl, his eyes gone and beak-pocks in his face and hands telling of visits by the birds that clustered more thickly toward the center of the field. Jory paused a moment, thought of the man who had made him a toy boat of metal that actually floated in the stream, with firecannon in the prow and three sailors to man it, and thought of the Passions. The grown-ups said that three of the Passions had gone mad during the Scourge, but wouldn't talk about it when they thought children were listening. Well, here was the proof of it. A Passion that could do this, that would allow this to happen, was mad, was crazy-dangerous the way Pillit got when he'd had too many ales and remembered his younger days when he'd fought against the Therans at Sky Point.
Lurching around, Jory wandered further into the field, pausing again when he saw a familiar face, felt another pang of grief, less painful with each one. The memories crowded in on themselves until he couldn't sort them out any more, and he meandered through the carnage in a daze, no longer recognizing those he saw.
Until a familiar cast of feature, a blue tunic, shocked him back to wakefulness. With a cry of inarticulate rage, he flung himself across the furrows, waving his arms to scare off the carrion birds. The body they'd been feeding on was Jerriv, there could be no doubt. Even eyeless, face torn by sharp beaks, left arm lying crooked and almost severed by a sword-cut that had driven from shoulder down to heart, Jory knew his brother. He sank down on his knees and wept yet again.
Finally, his tears ran dry. There just wasn't anything left. He felt hollow, emptied out, like the well. It wasn't right to leave his brother to the birds, but there was no way he could bury him. It would take a whole day just to dig a hole big enough, and Jory doubted that he could roll Jerriv into it once it was dug. With a sigh of helpless frustration, he got up and stood regarding the body in silence for a minute.
"I'm sorry," he said, a little startled by the sound of his own voice. "I'm sorry I made you mad. I'm sorry I was clumsy." He raised his eyes and stared off across the field. "I'm sorry I saw the cloud." He thought for another moment, but there wasn't anything else to say. "I'm sorry, Jerriv," he said once more, then turned and walked away, back toward the village, heading down the dividing line between battlefield and camp so that he didn't have to look at either one. The woods were just ahead. He could go through the trees back to the village and not have to look at the low fields again.
At the edge of the field was another body, tied spread-eagled between two trees. Jory glanced away, then back, drawn against his will by familiarity. He blinked away the blurring of tears to focus, to bring the face to clarity. Gannon. The orks had tied up the village storyteller by his wrists, hung him up like a carcass for dressing. Rocks and large sticks scattered about spoke of the rough sport the orks had had with the old man. His face was bruised and battered, his garments torn and bloodied. His beard, usually neatly combed and braided in Dwarven fashion, was tangled and matted with sweat, blood and bile. Jory paused, numb, regretful that here was one more body that he'd have to leave for the scavengers.
Then the corpse cracked one rheumy eye, the other too swollen to open. "Water," it croaked.
Jory leaped back with a cry, tripped over a root and landed in the undergrowth. Roots and branches tangled about him, grasping like greedy hands. He fought desperately to get up, to run away, to escape, bloodying his hands on thorny runners.
"Please," Gannon whispered. Jory stopped struggling for a moment. Dead bodies couldn't talk. He'd heard tales of nethermancers calling back the spirits of the dead, but they always appeared as misty shapes you couldn't see in the daylight. Gannon could talk, therefore he wasn't dead. Somebody else besides him was alive!
With difficulty, but more easily now that he wasn't panicking, Jory got himself out of the undergrowth. He took the sickle from his belt, that he'd been using as a utility knife, and sawed through the ropes. The knots had been tied by the orks and were too tight for him to undo.
Gannon collapsed to the ground with a low moan. His good eye roamed about, seeking his savior, but couldn't focus well enough to see Jory. "Thank you," he whispered. Then he fainted.
What to do? Jory had to get Gannon back to the village, that was obvious. But the storyteller was a grown-up. A skinny one, not a very large one, but a grown-up, and too big to carry or even drag. What did grown-ups do when they wanted to carry something big?
They got a horse to do it. Okay, he had a horse. Not much of a horse, but enough to do the job. Only how to get Gannon up on the horse? He couldn't lift the man that high. But if he only had to lift him a little ways, or roll him...
Jory dashed out onto the field, hunting frantically. It only took a few minutes to find what he was looking for: a dead ork. The villagers hadn't been the only casualties. The orks apparently didn't believe in burning their dead, or had missed this one, or something. Whatever the reason, Jory thanked the Passions that the body was still here, and still clutching its shield. That shield was metal, slightly curved and the size of a door. Tie a rope to the handles, and Jory could use it as a sort of travois, to drag Gannon back to the village.
With great care, he stepped closer to the dead ork. The body was huge, intimidating even in death. A snarl of rage was frozen on the ork's face, tusks bared and eyes slitted as he faced his last foe. Flies lifted off in a swarm as Jory moved close; he batted them away. The birds hadn't touched the body. Maybe they were scared of it. Maybe they knew something Jory didn't, something that could get him in trouble. But he had to have the shield.
Up close, the smell was awful. Bitter tang of sweat, sharp must of dried blood, the stench of rotting flesh, hot metal and old grease. The village had been bad, the field awful. This was worse than both of those put together. Jory's stomach knotted, wishing it had something to throw up. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to reach out, grab the shield -- it was hot! He snatched his hand back, blowing on his fingers. Well, of course it was hot. It was metal, it had been out in the sun all morning.
He cast about briefly, finally settling for taking a piece off a shirt from a nearby villager, deliberately not looking at the face. With that for a hotrag, he took hold of the shield and pulled. It came away a bit, then there was resistance, and the shield was yanked back out of his grasp.
Jory gasped, and let go of the shield, stepping back quickly. He checked the ork's face. No, no flicker of movement. The eyes were dry, glazed over. The ork was dead. But it took back the shield. Or did it? Could all this be making him imagine things that weren't happening?
He took hold of the shield again, and pulled. Again, it started to come away, then resisted. This time, Jory leaned into it. The ork's arm came up, pulling the shield back to the body. At that, Jory let go of the shield and let it fall again.
He walked a slow circle around the body, peering at it closely. The ork was dead. In the stories Gannon told of the Horrors, dead bodies that moved on their own wandered around killing people. They didn't spend their time lying out in the sun wrestling boys over their shields. Something else had to be causing the arm to come up with the shield.
There. That was the problem. The shield had leather straps on the back that were binding it to the arm. No wonder he couldn't drag it away. The ork wasn't holding onto the shield, the shield was holding onto the ork. He had to undo those straps if he wanted the shield.
Wasn't there anything else he could use? Jory glanced around the battlefield. No, not unless you counted the shields of a couple of other orks, which were probably strapped on just as well. And there were a few doors and stuff back in the village, but by the time he got there and back again with the horse, it would be nearly dark. If he took the time to take down a door, it'd be after dark, and he'd have to load Gannon without being able to see properly. If he got the shield now, he could go on and roll Gannon onto it while he could see what he was doing, then go get the horse and drag Gannon back to the village before full night set in. He had to have the shield.
Jory stepped cautiously up to the body, wrinkling his nose at the smell. It made him gag to be this close. He pried up the shield, then had to step back and retch for a moment as the smell wafted up from under it. Another try, holding his breath this time. He got one buckle undone, then had to gasp for air, causing another bout of retching. One more try, tiny breaths between his teeth, and he got the other buckle undone. Staggering away with the shield dragging in the dirt behind him, he headed over to the woods at the edge of the field.
Jory laid the shield down next to the unconscious storyteller. Gannon still lay where he had fallen, limbs twisted in an uncomfortable-looking tangle. Jory felt a flash of panic. What if Gannon had died while he was out getting the shield? Checking anxiously, he found that the old man was still breathing. Best to get on with it, then.
Taking hold of the storyteller's left arm, Jory heaved the old man over onto his back. Gannon landed mostly on the shield, but at the impact let out a rattling wheeze, and coughed, then settled back down to his previous labored breathing. Jory forced himself to calm down. If he panicked every time the old man made a noise, he'd spend the rest of the night scared out of his mind and not getting anything done. One thing at a time, his father always said, and keep your mind on your job.
Next came the old man's legs. One at a time, Jory dragged them over onto the shield. Arms, done, fine. Gannon lay entirely on the shield. Now Passions grant he stays there while I go get the horse, Jory prayed. If he crawls off, I'll have to do that all over again, and he felt so fragile, like a dry twig. If I have to move him again, he might snap right in two.
Off he went, back to the village to get the horse. The walk gave him time to think, which he decided he'd rather not have. So he'd found Gannon. There was no guarantee the old man would live to see the sun rise. And what were they going to eat? And water. He had to get water, or Gannon would die of thirst before his injuries or the lack of food took him. There was just so much to do, and he was just a child. It was too soon for him to have this kind of worry. But there weren't any grown-ups left, other than Gannon, and the storyteller couldn't even help himself, much less Jory.
He stopped, staring up at the sky. Picking out the stars that made up Garlen's picture, he thought about Her for a moment. Mommy said that Garlen was the best of the Passions, because She protected the home and made sick people well. But Garlen hadn't protected his home, in spite of the shrine in the front hall. The orks had smashed the shrine before anything else, then walked back and forth over the pieces going in and out of the house.
He turned his eyes instead to Thystonius. Daddy said that Thystonius was for grown-ups, who understood the necessity of conflict, whatever that meant. All Jory knew was that Thystonius made people strong and helped them fight. Make me strong, he prayed. Help me fight the orks. Help me make them pay for this.
Nothing happened, but he felt better just having turned over part of the problem to a higher power.
The horse was still there, so maybe the Passions hadn't completely deserted him and the village. It even came along without much of a fight, once he gave it an apple he'd kept in his pocket from lunch. Going back across to the woods was faster once he clambered up on the horse's back. Not very comfortable without a saddle, but better and faster than walking.
Gannon had rolled over on his side, but was still mostly on the shield when he got there. One push and the old man flopped over on his back again. Jory checked. yes, he was still breathing. Tying one end of a rope to one of the straps of the shield, he passed the rope over the horse and down on the other side, tying its other end to the other strap. That done, Jory climbed back up on the horse, and took the rope up onto his lap. Without a halter, he'd have to hold the rope himself. Jory clucked to the horse, and it started off.
The initial jerk nearly snatched Jory off the horse's back. He grabbed a double handful of mane, and the horse stamped and tossed its head in annoyance. Again, he clucked to the horse, and prepared for the jerk, held on without as much trouble.
Riding back to the village took as long as walking had. He had to go around a lot of obstacles, ruts and tree stumps and such. When the horse tried to speed up, the pull of the rope tried to yank him off its back, and he had to yank on its mane and make it slow down again. Once, the shield tipped up on a rock, and Gannon almost fell off. Jory jumped down quickly and heaved the shield off the rock, wedging his foot underneath the storyteller to keep him on the shield. Something in his back twanged like a bowstring at the effort, but he held on grimly and got things set to right. This was grown-ups' work, and he was just a boy, but there weren't any grown-ups to do it and it had to be done.
Back at the well, Jory dropped the rope, picked up the bucket, and rode off over the hill, leaving Gannon behind. Getting off the horse and back on with a bucket full of water was almost more than he could do, with his back hurting, and he was so tired. Just a little more, though, and then he could rest. No point in getting the storyteller all the way back to the village if the old man died of thirst. At least he had a horse that could do the walking for him. And the sun had set. It would be full dark by the time he got back with the water, and nobody could reasonably expect him to do anything more in the dark.
Once more at the well, Jory filled a dipper with water and held it to the old man's lips. No good. He was out cold. Jory thought of forcing Gannon's mouth open and pouring in the water, but then he remembered once when Jerriv had dumped a bucket of water over him when he was sleeping and wouldn't get up. Jory had choked on the water. The memory threatened to overwhelm him. Jerriv was lying out in the field being eaten by crows. With a shake of his head, Jory pushed away the thought and settled for dribbling the water over Gannon's mouth and neck.
The old man's lips parted, and a little of the water ran in. When Gannon didn't cough, Jory tried a little more. Bit by bit, he fed the storyteller the entire dipperful. Remembering his father's injunction to never drink a lot of water when he was hot and thirsty, risking cramps, Jory stopped with the first dipper. Let that settle, he thought, and see if he wakes up. I'll just curl up here next to him on the blanket and keep watch, if he needs more...
Then the sun pried his eyes open. The horse had wandered off to forage in the baker's yard. Beside him, Gannon was still breathing, but not awake. Like the night before, Jory fed him a slow dipperful of water, then took one for himself. Wandering off behind the oven to relieve himself before chasing down the horse, Jory began making plans for the day. He tucked the corn dolly under his arm so he wouldn't drop it, then unlaced his trousers.
It seemed strange to have to think of things to do for himself. All of his life, his father, his mother, his brothers, his neighbors had all had jobs for him. Only in the evenings, after all the work was done, and on the occasional free day, did he have any time for himself, when he had to come up with something to do on his own. Now there wasn't anybody to tell him what to do, and he just hoped he didn't forget anything important.
There was no point in staying any longer than he had to. The village was gone, and he couldn't make it on his own. The next village was supposed to be just a couple of days down the road. He'd go there and tell the people there what had happened. To get there, he'd need food, and water, and blankets, and ... well, a lot of stuff. Jory shrugged, and tied up his trousers. Might as well just take everything he could. He had no idea what would be useful out on the road, having never been there before. Tucking the corn dolly back into his waistband, he walked around the baker's house to deal with the horse.
The horse didn't feel like leaving the sparse forage of the baker's yard, and Jory was too tired and sore and stiff to argue with it. He'd go get a few apples. That would bring any horse where you wanted it. He set out to see what was still useful.
Luck was with him. There were a few loaves of bread in the oven, set to the side in the warming part where they'd stay hot but wouldn't burn. That meant breakfast and lunch. As well, the baker's cart was still in its shed. Some of the harness was missing, and the shed had been rummaged through, but the cart had been left. Jory guessed that either the orks didn't need the cart, or they thought too little of it to take it. Probably the latter, he decided. The cart wasn't made for long trips. It was fine for delivering loaves around the village, but its solid wooden wheels and unsprung axles would make for a bumpy ride. He shrugged. Better a bad cart than no cart at all. There was no way he could push it out of the shed like the men did. He'd have to load it in place, then hitch up the horse and drive around to the well to pick up Gannon. How to get the old man onto the cart was another problem entirely. One thing at a time, like his father said.
The morning vanished in the search for food, blankets, tools, and whatever else looked handy. Jory made repeated trips to the baker's shed, checking each time on Gannon and giving the old man another dipperful of water. Come the nooning, he sat down next to the storyteller and ate part of a loaf of bread. Curious as to how the old man was getting along, he tore a small bit of bread from the loaf, and pressed it to Gannon's lips. The old man stirred, and took the bread, chewing it slowly. His eyes flickered open, but didn't focus very well. Encouraged, Jory fed him more bread, going through several bites before Gannon refused one with a slow shake of his head.
"Water," he said in a cracked whisper.
Jory held the dipper to his mouth, and this time Gannon managed to drink on his own. After that, though, the old man slipped back into unconsciousness. His breathing was still labored. He was eating and drinking on his own, though, and Jory took that as a good sign. He wished he knew how to cook. He'd make some of that soup his mother always made when he or one of his brothers or sisters was ill.
This time the memory was too strong. Tears ran freely down his face as Jory realized his mother wouldn't ever do that again, would never tend a sick child, never make any of the wonderful dishes she'd served her family over the years. She was gone. Thystonius, the child prayed, make me strong. But the stars weren't visible in the daylight, and the Passions seemed very far away and removed from a small boy crying in the ruins of his home.
Shaking himself out of his misery at last, Jory set off once more to gather up useful stuff. By evening he had the wagon loaded. A basket of apples from the orchard, another basket with young carrots and radishes sat next to the bread from the oven and a few more loaves he'd found in people's kitchens, that the orks had missed. Going into everyone's houses, the ones that were still standing, made him feel creepy, like a thief. But they were all gone, and they weren't coming back, and he needed their stuff. It wasn't stealing, really, taking stuff that people left behind, especially when you needed it. And they weren't coming back for it. And Jory knew he wouldn't get to the next village without everything he could scavenge.
He decided to wait until the morning to hitch up the horse. How to get Gannon onto the wagon, though? He went back to the well to think about it. A shock went through him when he came around the corner and Gannon wasn't there. Had the orks come back? Where was he?
"... help ..." The faint call came from the far side of the well, over by the ruins of the blacksmith's shop. Jory hurried around, finding Gannon sprawled in the ashes by the shop's foundations.
"Gannon!" Jory knelt down by the old man. "What happened?"
".. had to answer ... call of nature ... " the storyteller whispered. " ... got there ... couldn't get back ... "
Jory nodded. Better to fall down than to make a mess where you were laying. He understood. It was embarrassing enough for a kid. "Can you get up if I help you?"
" ... can try ... " Gannon whispered, with a nod.
Jory picked up the old man's arm, draping it over his shoulder. He gave a heave, as the storyteller pushed up, bringing Gannon to his knees. It was like uprooting a tree, hard at first but then it came loose from the earth. Gannon felt like an old tree, too, all dry and brittle and thin, like he could snap if tugged too sharply. Another heave, and the old man came up to his feet, staggering forward to maintain his balance. Jory hurried along with him, desperate to stay under him. If Gannon went down again, he might not get up.
In three rushes, they made it to the well, and around, where Jory had laid out a bed of straw from the baker's loft. He eased Gannon down onto the palette, wrinkling his nose at a bad smell from somewhere near. The storyteller closed his eyes and didn't respond when Jory called his name. He was still breathing, though, so Jory figured that the walk had just tired him badly.
It didn't take more than a step to find the source of the smell. The shield bore traces of what had inspired Gannon to such effort. Jory smacked his forehead with his open palm. How long had he left the old man to lie in his own filth before Gannon had at last mustered the wherewithal to tend to himself? He glanced around at the storyteller, now realizing that beneath the long tunic, the old man's trousers were missing. No doubt they'd been left behind as unsalvageble. Jory sighed. He supposed he'd better find something else for Gannon to wear, and probably some spares, and maybe some rags as well. He'd have to look after the storyteller like you would a baby, unable to care for himself in even the most basic of matters.
A bucket of water and a twist of straw did for the shield. Jory left it propped upright against the well to dry. Another bucket and an old horse blanket torn to rags went into remedying his neglect of Gannon. Fortunately, the old man hadn't eaten in a couple of days, so there wasn't as much to clean up as he'd feared. Thankfully, Gannon did not wake during the process, or if he did, he gave no sign. That would have been just far too awkward to deal with.
Finally, Jory settled in for the night, or what remained of it. Despite the hard ground and the discomfort of his aching muscles, he was asleep, or at least unconscious, within a few breaths.
The noonday sun picked out details in the wreckage of the house: the broken crockery across the kitchen floor, the smashed furniture in the main room, the bloodstains. Jory stood staring down at his mother's body. It wasn't right to just leave her. She should be buried. But she was to big for him to drag out of the house, and the horse wouldn't fit inside. There were too many corners and it was too far to the door for him to run a rope to her. Something had to be done.
All the supplies he'd gathered were on the wagon. Gannon had waked sufficiently to eat a little bread soaked in water, and drink a little, and to crawl up the shield into the wagon. The horse was in the traces. Everything was ready except for Jory himself. He couldn't leave, couldn't just walk away and leave his mother's body sitting out for the animals to find when they came out of the woods. He stood and stared for a long time, most of it not thinking, just letting his mind wander, seeing the past, preferable to seeing what lay on the floor before him.
At last, he made a decision. Marching out of the house, he strode off to the next house, and went in searching. A short time later, he came out with a blanket wrapped around a few small items, and proceeded to the next house, and the next, his parcel growing a little larger with each building visited. By the time he'd reached the end of the block, where the street intersected the road to the storage barns, and come back, he was struggling under the weight.
Jory set his bundle down carefully, the contents clinking and rattling. Reaching in, he pulled out a lamp, discarded the cork and wick and strode resolutely into his former home. Carefully pouring the oil along the baseboard, he made it halfway around the room before the supply ran out and he had to go outside for another lamp. Fortunately, the orks hadn't smashed all the lamps, and had even left most of them.
The evening sun lengthened the shadow of a small grim figure standing before the burning house, giving adult height to a person no longer quite a child. Heat distortion and flickering orange light picked out lines in a face far too young to have them. Jory stood and watched until the roof fell in, a great gout of sparks flying up, drifting over to the neighboring houses and taking life in the thatch of their roofs. He turned away and strode off to the wagon, took the leads of the horse and tugged it into motion. Out along the road Jory went, walking next to the horse, the smoke of his past life rising behind him, a thread weaving together earth and sky, a thread unweaving Jory from everything he'd known. The corn dolly's painted eyes peered anxiously over the flap of his tunic.
Scorchers? The whole village? That's terrible! Has Throal sent out troops to help? No? I wonder why. Must be overburdened again. You know, I was over in Theran territory not too long ago, and they have no problems with scorchers. Very orderly place. Plenty of troops to take care of bandits and such problems. No sky raiders swooping down on you. If Throal can't protect you, maybe you should reconsider your allegiance. Treason? Oh, please. Let's be realistic here. Who's been betrayed? Neden? You've paid your taxes, maintained your loyalty, supported his line in its bid for power -- and what's he done for you? Really, who's been betrayed here? Who's failed to hold up their end of the bargain? I'm not recommending insurrection, now, that's a very nasty word, but you have to be practical. All I'm saying is that you should be able to raise your children in safety, without having to fear for their lives and yours. You should have protection from bandits. Thera has no trouble protecting its citizens. Here, let me buy you a refill.