“The main highway!” Paithan clutched his reins with sweating, trembling hands.
“The tytans have reached the main highway.”
The elf saw in his mind the stream of humanity, saw the giant, eyeless creatures come upon it. He saw the people scatter, try to flee, but there was nowhere to go on the wide-open plains, no escape. The stream would turn to a river of blood.
Rega pressed her hands against her ears. “Shut up!” she was screaming over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” As if in answer, a sudden, eerie silence fell over the jungle, silence broken only by the not-too-distant cries of the dying.
“They’re here,” said Roland, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“The ferry!” Paithan gasped. “The creatures may be giants, but they’re not tall enough to wade the Kithni Gulf! That will stop them, for a time at least.” He spurred his cargan on. The startled animal, terrified itself, leapt forward in panic.
The others followed, flying through the jungle, ducking overhanging limbs, vines slapping them in the face. Breaking out into the open, they saw ahead of them the sparkling, placid surface of the Kithni Gulf, a startling contrast to the chaos erupting on the water’s edge.
Humans were running madly down the main highway that led to the ferry, fear stripping them of any consciousness they might have had for their fellows. Those who fell were trampled beneath pounding feet. Children were swept from their parents’ arms by the crush of the mob, small bodies hurled to the ground. Those who stopped to try to help the fallen never rose again. Looking far back, on the horizon, Paithan saw the jungle moving.
“Paithan! Look!” Rega clutched at him, pointing. The elf shifted his gaze back to the ferry. The pier was mobbed, people pushing and shoving. Out in the water, the boat, overloaded, was riding too low and sinking deeper by the minute. It would never make it across. And it wouldn’t matter if it did.
The other ferry boat had put out from the opposite shore. It was lined with elven archers, railbows ready, arrows pointing toward Thillia. Paithan assumed at first that the elves were coming to the aid of the humans, and his heart swelled with pride. Sir Lathan had been wrong. The elves would drive the tytans back!
A human, attempting to swim the gulf, came near the boat, stretched out with his hand for help.
The elves shot him. His body slid down beneath the water and vanished. Sickened, disbelieving, Paithan saw his people turn their weapons not on the coming tytans, but on the humans trying to flee the enemy.
“You bastard!”
Paithan turned to see a wild-eyed man attempting to drag Roland from his saddle. People on the highway, seeing the cargans, realized that the animals offered escape. A frenzied mob started toward them. Roland beat the man off, clouting him to the moss with his strong hand. Another came at Rega, a branch in his hand. She kicked him in the face with her boot, sending him reeling backward. The cargans, already panicked, began to leap and buck, striking out with their sharp claws. Drugar, cursing in dwarven, was using his reins as a lash to keep the mob at bay.
“Back to the trees!” Paithan cried, wheeling his animal. Rega galloped beside him, but Roland was caught, unable to extricate himself from grasping hands. He was nearly pulled from the saddle. Drugar, seeing the human in trouble, forced his cargan between Roland and the mob. The dwarf grabbed hold of Roland’s reins and yanked the cargan forward, joining up with Paithan and Rega. The four galloped back into the shelter of the jungle. Once safe, they paused to catch their breath. They avoided looking at each other, none of them wanting to see the inevitable in his companion’s face.
“There must be a trail that leads to the gulf!” said Paithan. “The cargan can swim.”
“And get shot by elves!” Roland wiped blood from a cut lip.
“They won’t shoot me.”
“A lot of good that does us!”
“They won’t harm you if you’re with me.” Paithan wished he was certain of that fact, but right now he supposed it didn’t matter.
“If there is a trail … I don’t know it,” said Rega. A tremor shook her body, she gripped the saddle to keep from falling. Paithan plunged off the path, heading in the direction of the gulf. Within moments, he and the cargan became hopelessly entangled in the thick undergrowth. The elf fought on, refusing to admit defeat, but he saw that even if they did manage to hack their way through, it would take hours. And they did not have hours. Wearily, he rode back.
The sounds of death from the highway grew louder. They could hear splashes, people hurling themselves into the Kithni.
Roland slid from his saddle. Landing on the ground, he gazed around. “This looks as good a place to die as any.”
Slowly, Paithan climbed from his cargan and walked over to Rega. He held out his arms. She slipped into them, and he clasped her tightly.
“I can’t watch, Paithan,” she said. “Promise me I won’t have to see them!”
“You won’t,” he whispered, smoothing the dark hair. “Keep your eyes on me.” Roland stood squarely on the path, facing the direction in which the tytans must come. His fear was gone, or perhaps he was just too tired to care anymore.
Drugar, a ghastly grin on his bearded face, put his hand to his belt and drew the bone-handle knife.
One stroke for each of them, and a final for himself.
25
Haplo lay flat on his back on the moss, shielding his eyes from the sun, counting stars.
He had come up with twenty-five bright lights that he could see clearly from this vantage point. Lenthan Quindiniar had assured him that—all told—the elves had counted ninety-seven. Not all of these were visible all the time, of course. Some of them winked out and stayed out for a number of seasons before returning. Elven astronomers had also calculated that there were Stars near the horizon that could not be seen due to the atmosphere. They had estimated, therefore, that there might be anywhere from 150 to 200 stars total in the heavens.
Which was certainly different from any stars Haplo’d ever heard about. He considered the possibility of moons. There had been a moon in the ancient world, according to his lord’s research. But there had been no moon in the Sartan rendering of this world and Haplo hadn’t seen any moonlike objects during his flight. Again, he thought it likely that moons would revolve around the world and these lights were, apparently, stationary. But then the sun was stationary. Or rather the planet of Pryan :was stationary. It didn’t revolve. There was no day or night. And then there was the strange cycle of the stars—burning brightly for long periods of time, then going dark, then reappearing.
Haplo sat up, glanced about for the dog, discovered it wandering about the yard, sniffing at the strange smells of people and other animals it didn’t recognize. The Patryn, alone in the yard, everyone else asleep, scratched at his bandaged hands. The binding always irritated his skin the first few days he wore it.
Maybe the lights are nothing more than a natural phenomenon peculiar to this planet. Which means I’m wasting my time, speculating about them and the sun. After all, I wasn’t sent here to study astronomy. I’ve got more important problems. Like what to do about this world.
Last evening, Lenthan Quindiniar had drawn Haplo a picture of the world as the elves viewed it. The drawing was sinfilar to the drawing Haplo’d seen in the Nexus—a round globe with a ball of fire in the center. Above the world, the elf added the “stars” and the sun. He pointed out their own location on this world—or what the elven astrologers had plotted was their location—and told him how the elves had, centuries ago, crossed the Paragna Sea to the est and arrived at the Fartherness Reaches.
“It was the plague,” Lenthan had explained. “They were fleeing it. Otherwise they never would have left their homes.”