Last Of The Wilds
Trudi Canavan
LAST OF THE WILDS
Book Two of a phenomenal new epic fantasy trilogy
AGE OF THE FIVE
by internationally bestselling author
TRUDI CANAVAN
The leaden sky leached everything of color - except the blood.
The faces of the corpses were white, the hair either black or a bleached non-color. The weapons, still clutched in stiffened hands or wedged in flesh, lacked shine. The circs of the priests were a dull white.
But the stains on them were luridly bright. Thick crimson oozed from wounds and slicked blades. Pools of it gathered under the dead like a morbid carpet. Trickles of it flowed down folds in the earth. It gathered to form streams. Pooled. Soaked into the soil, so that it bubbled to the surface at every step.
The sickened mud sucked at her feet. She took a few more steps, then found she could not move. The mud clung to her shoes. It gave beneath her. She felt herself sinking into it. She felt the cold moisture creeping up her legs and her heart began to race.
“You killed us,” hissed a voice.
She looked up to see corpses raising their heads to stare at her with dead eyes.
“You,” another said, his partly severed head lolling on the ground. “You did this to me.”
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EOS
An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022-5299
This book was originally published in Australia in 2005 by Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Copyright (c) 2006 by Trudi Canavan
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-081591-2
ISBN-10: 0-06-081591-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Eos, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
First Eos paperback printing: May 2006
HarperCollins(r) and Eos(r) are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Printed in the U. S. A.
To my Nana, Ivy Dauncey,
who loves to tell stories
Acknowledgments
Many thanks:
First to “The Two Pauls” and Fran Bryson, who read the roughest of all rough drafts. Also to Jennifer Fallon, Russell Kirkpatrick, Glenda Larke, Fiona McLennan, Ella McCay, Tessa Kum for their feedback. To all my readers, especially all my readers on Voyager Online. And, finally, to Diana Gill and the Eos team, and to Matt Stawicki for the fabulous cover illustrations.
Prologue
Reivan detected the change before any of the others. At first it was instinctive, a feeling more than a knowing; then she noticed that the air smelled duller and that there was a grittiness to it. Looking at the rough walls of the tunnel, she saw deposits of a powdery substance. It coated one side of every bump and groove, as if it had been blown there from a wind originating in the darkness ahead.
A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of what that might mean, yet she said nothing. She might be wrong, and everyone was still deeply shocked by their defeat. All were struggling to accept the deaths of friends, family and comrades, their bodies left behind, buried in the fertile soil of the enemy. They didn’t need something else to worry about.
Even if they hadn’t been all scurrying home in the lowest of spirits, she would not have spoken. The men of her team were easily offended. They, like her, nursed a secret resentment that they had not been born with enough Skill to become a Servant of the Gods. So they clung to the only sources of superiority they had.
They were smarter than average folk. They were Thinkers. Distinguished from the merely educated by their ability to calculate, invent, philosophize and reason. This made them fiercely competitive. Long ago they had formed an internal hierarchy. Older had precedence over younger. Men had credence over women.
It was ridiculous, of course. Reivan had observed that minds tended to become as inflexible and slow with age as the bodies they rested in. Just because there were more men than women among the Thinkers didn’t mean men were any smarter. Reivan relished proving the latter... but now was definitely not the time for that.
And I might be wrong.
The smell of dust was stronger now.
Gods, I hope I’m wrong.
Abruptly she remembered the Voices’ ability to read minds. She glanced over her shoulder and felt a moment’s disorientation. She had expected to see Kuar. Instead a tall, elegant woman walked behind the Thinkers. Imenja, Second Voice of the Gods. Reivan felt a pang of sadness as she remembered why this woman now led the army.
Kuar was dead, killed by the heathen Circlians.
Imenja looked at Reivan, then beckoned. Reivan’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t spoken to any of the Voices before, despite being part of the team of Thinkers that had mapped the route through the mountains. Grauer, the team leader, had made the task of reporting to the Voices his own.
She stopped. A glance at the men before her told her they hadn’t noticed the summons, or that she was falling behind. Certainly not Grauer, whose attention was on the maps. When Imenja reached her, Reivan began walking again, remaining one step behind the Voice.
“How may I serve you, holy one?”
Imenja was still frowning, though her gaze remained on the Thinkers. “What is it you fear?” she asked in a low voice.
Reivan bit her lip. “It is probably underground madness, the dark upsetting my mind,” she said hastily. “But... the air was never this dusty on our previous journey. Nor was there this much on the walls. The pattern of it suggests rapid air movement from somewhere ahead. I can think of a few causes... ”
“You fear there has been a collapse,” Imenja stated.
Reivan nodded. “Yes. And further instability.”
“Natural or unnatural?”
Imenja’s question, and what it suggested, caused Reivan to pause in shock and dread.
“I don’t know. Who would do that? And why?”
Imenja scowled. “I have already received reports that the Sennons are causing trouble for our people now that the news of our defeat has reached them. Or it might be the local villagers seeking revenge.”
Reivan looked away. A memory rose of vorns, mouths dripping with blood after a final “hunting” trip the night before they’d entered the mines. The good will of local villages hadn’t been a priority to the army - not when victory was so sure.
We weren’t supposed to come back this way, either. We were supposed to drive the heathens out of Northern Ithania and claim it for the gods, and return to our homes via the pass.