Gerrard nodded. "All right. Tell your people to fight only on my orders. We're counting on surprise and skill at arms, not brute force."
The fangy smile on Xcric's face was indecipherable. "Oh, yes. I'll tell them." He reigned in his Jhovall and dropped back through the ravening storm.
Takara leaned toward Gerrard, putting a hand on his knee. "You'd better be ready to fight, Gerrard."
"I don't trust the caterans," Gerrard replied. "They could just as easily kill Orim as the Cho-Arrim."
"And if the Cho-Arrim have already killed your friend- our friend-what then?"
Gerrard's smile was humorless. "Then I'll let the caterans kill as many as they want."
The dust cloud suddenly thinned and fell away entirely. The ever-present shroud of tan dissipated, replaced by a searing yellow sky, parched brown soil, and the vast green wall of the Rushwood.
The ancient forest was an imposing sight. Tree trunks, as wide around as mansions, reached to the sky. They were packed as tightly as teeth in a titan's smile. The lower boles and root bulbs had fused together into a smooth and sloping wall a hundred feet high. Above it, trunks divided and soared straight up, mossy columns in a colossal temple. They supported a lofty and dense ceiling of foliage and vines. Trees receded into dim infinity.
"Is this the right spot, Sisay?" Gerrard asked.
She nodded grimly, staring at a small map scroll. "Yes, if Mercadian cartography can be trusted." Sisay wiped dust from her face. The beautiful sheen of her skin appeared beneath it. She stared at the dark forest ahead. "It's another world in there, Gerrard. Outsiders are not welcome. It's no wonder the caterans before us got slaughtered."
Takara studied Sisay. "Those Cho-Arrim survive in a forest where caterans don't."
"Perhaps they survive because the forest wants them to," Sisay replied. "Stories in the Mercadian libraries tell that the Rushwood is a living entity, a great thinking thing. It will know we enter it. It will marshal defenses."
Gerrard nodded. "Then let us enter respectfully. Fight only if you are attacked. Relay the word." He set heels to his Jhovall's flanks.
He rode up the slanting ground beneath the forest wall. His tawny mount flung back the bank easily. It bounded, weary of dust flats and eager for woodlands. The Jhovall's claws sank in the loamy soil.
Takara, Sisay, and Tahngarth followed in his wake, and the Mercadian Guard and caterans brought up the rear. Though individually soft-footed, en masse the Jhovalls made a vast rumble on the sloping ground.
Gerrard's mount reached a wooden wall and climbed. Claws gripped ancient bark. The beast hurled itself upward. Gerrard leaned forward in the saddle. With its six legs, the Jhovall ascended with greater ease than a typical cat. In moments, it topped the forest wall and entered the cool, wet space between trees. Bounding over lichen and spongy humus, the tigercreature led the mounted corps into the forest.
"So," Gerrard murmured to himself, "this is the Rushwood."
Glaring dust gave way to damp murk. Sweat turned cold on necks. Shouts and rumbling footfalls were swallowed in a preternatural hush. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the army charged inward.
Gerrard motioned Sisay up beside his surging steed. Her mount matched his stride for stride. So quiet were their footfalls across moss and mushroom that the two old friends could speak to each other in hushed whispers.
"Where from here?" Gerrard asked.
"You should have brought your navigator," Sisay replied with a wry smile. "Though I wouldn't have flung Hanna into these fights, either." She consulted the map scroll. "We head southeast from here to the river. After we cross it, we head due south to reach the center of the wood. Then, of course, we hope Weatherlight is there."
"She's there, all right." Gerrard's eyes were faraway. "Does she call to you?"
"What?"
"Weatherlight. Does she call to you?" Gerrard asked.
Sisay blinked. "Maybe. Maybe I've just never listened…"
"She calls to me," Gerrard said, his voice husky among the rushing boles. "Even when I fled away from her, Weatherlight called to me."
Sisay shrugged. The green murk grew deeper around them, and a ghostly silver glow shone among the vast trees. "That's why I'm Weatherlight's captain, and you're her comrade, her destiny."
"She's there, all right," Gerrard repeated, gazing into the darkness. "She's in the center of the forest. The ChoArrim took her there."
A speculative look crossed Sisay's face. "I think Takara's been listening too much to these Mercadians-all this inhuman monster nonsense. Those weren't monsters we fought at the farm. The way they appeared and took Weatherlight- it was like the ship called to them too." Hesitantly, she ventured, "Perhaps she is part of their destiny too."
A muscle in Gerrard's jaw leaped. "We'll see, soon enough. We'll ride until dark and then set up camp. No fires tonight. Nothing that might… offend the forest."
Sisay gave an appraising nod. The forest scrolled dizzily past her mount. "Yes. I think Weatherlight does call to you."
Chapter 7
"Orim!"
Weatherlight's healer turned on her bed of leaves and woven moss, murmuring inarticulately. "Orim!"
"All ri'. All ri'. I'm 'wake. What is it?" She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Dim light shone through the window, illuminating the small room and its simple furnishings: the bed, a small hearth, a rough table, a chair. Before her squatted one of the Cho-Arrim whose name she did not know. He touched his forehead in salute.
"Is-Meisha's time comes. You must help her now." Orim threw off the rough blanket that covered her and, without giving any thought to her nakedness, pulled on a simple shift. "Is Ta-Karnst with her?"
"Yes, but he wishes you to be there as well." He paused and added, "Cho-Manno and Is-Shada are already there."
Orim nodded, scarcely looking at him. Her mind was racing ahead. "Can you heat some water?" she asked, pushing back the door. She left, not waiting for an answer.
Orim made her way easily through the settlement. Many of the villagers' huts were grouped around the clearing in which the central fire burned. Others were tucked back within the trees, some nearer to the waters of the lagoon. A few, indeed, were built out over the lagoon itself, supported by wooden stilts, with narrow causeways connecting them to the land and each other.
The hut Is-Meisha shared with her mate was one of these. It took Orim only a few minutes to traverse the causeways to reach it. By the entrance, a small crowd had gathered, anticipating the new addition to the tribe. Is-Shada was among them, eager to help but uncertain what to do.
"Don't fear, everyone," Is-Shada said. "Orim is here. She will know what to do."
As Orim pushed her way through, she smiled nervously at her friend. The tribesmen respectfully gave way.
Inside the dwelling, she strained to make out the identity of the people. The executioner Ta-Spon, Is-Meisha's mate, was crouched next to the bed, on which lay a recumbent figure. TaSpon rose as Orim entered. A giant of a man, almost seven feet tall, his head brushed the top of the hut. Orim made a quick bow to him, feeling more than a little intimidated. Gratefully, she saw Cho-Manno standing motionless in one corner. He caught Orim's eye and smiled reassuringly at her.
Ta-Karnst was kneeling at the other side of the bed, his hands busy kneading Is-Meisha's muscles. He glanced up at Orim.
"The youngling is coming hard."
Orim joined him, putting a hand on Is-Meisha's swollen belly. She could feel contractions running along the smooth skin, straining the exhausted muscles. She lifted Is-Meisha's shift, already damp with sweat, and glanced beneath it. "How long has she been in labor?" "Four hours."
"Why did you not call me earlier?" "There seemed no need to disturb your rest. I have birthed younglings many times before." He added, "I have seen this too. The mother strains and strains but cannot give birth. At last she may give birth, but the child is always dead, and often the mother dies as well."