The Gathering Storm - Elsewhere, Book 1

Aysh and Mikkol seemed to have joined the quest by unanimous, unspoken consent as they travelled on towards the lake. There had been a moment of tension when the two Equiseen youngsters had been introduced to Jonor, being as he was the poster-boy for traitorous rebel; a fact they were having trouble accepting now also applied to themselves. Jonor, having had many years to reconcile himself to his exile, was happy to extend a hand of friendship; was glad in fact to have two more Equiseen in the group after so many Turns separated from his race. Aysh and Mikkol had a harder time being in the company of someone they had grown up associating with such negative emotions; felt awkward sitting by the campfire with him or responding to his attempts at small talk. Emerden hoped it would just take time for them all to adjust and advised Jonor to be patient with them.

Mikkol had been jubilant over his incipient fatherhood and became particularly protective over Aysh, rather to her annoyance. The remedies Nula had given her improved her health almost immediately and the dietary advice ensured that she gained strength daily. She soon chaffed against being told she should slow her pace, refrain from fetching water or logs, let Mikkol carry her pack, sit and rest instead of hunting. At first in her weakened state she smiled and accepted the help, but as she grew stronger she began to feel frustrated and eventually she could stand no more.

“I’m not ill! Only pregnant; it’s not a disease!” she burst out as Mikkol took the water bucket from her again. Mikkol looked first startled, then hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she backtracked hurriedly. “I know you just want to care for me, but I’m fine now, really. Nula says I can do most things; the baby’s really well protected in there and I’m having a normal, healthy pregnancy. So you don’t need to worry,” she finished, kissing his cheek and stealthily removing the bucket from his hand while his attention was distracted by the spicy-sweet smell of her skin and hair. She turned and walked towards the stream with the bucket swinging in her hand, leaving him staring after her. Jonor, who had watched the exchange from nearby, came over and clapped Mikkol on the shoulder.

“You can’t wrap her in swaddling linens, my friend. She’s a strong young woman, and very capable I think.”

Mikkol resented the older Equiseen airing his opinions of Aysh so freely. He had avoided spending any real time with him over the three days they had been with the group, preferring to sit or walk with the brothers or with Aysh and the other women. The conversation he and Aysh had had about the itinerant Equiseen man and their own plans to break with their people echoed uncomfortably in his ears. It disturbed him to look at Jonor’s close cropped mop of hair while he and Aysh still wore long braids.

“You don’t know anything about her,” he snapped, shrugging Jonor’s hand away.

Jonor frowned at his attitude but tried again. “I know how hard it is to leave your people,” he said. “I know how it is to feel different and to fear how people would react if they knew the real you. I know how it is to feel torn between your family and wanting to lead your own life.”

Mikkol rounded on him, his eyes blazing. “You were banished! You didn’t choose to leave. You were a coward! You wouldn’t fight willingly. Your father was ashamed of your craven heart and your mother still weeps of shame at raising such a whey-faced...”

He was unable to finish his sentence because he suddenly found himself flat on his back with Jonor crouched over him, a dagger held threateningly against his hair as Jonor wound the long braid around his free hand. Jonor’s stifle bone dug painfully into Mikkol’s ribs as he pinned him to the ground, and his breath was hot on Mikkol’s cheek as he crouched low over him, eyes boring into the younger man. Others had been drawn close by the sound of Mikkol’s shouting and were aghast to see Jonor, who was usually such a pacifist, acting so aggressively.

“Don’t you EVER mention my mother!” he growled in Mikkol’s face. “Do you think yours wept any less when she heard what you had done? Do you think your father is any less ashamed of his only son? But I was no coward. I took my place in the battle lines and did my duty before I left, despite my distaste for harming another. And I did choose to leave, to serve the carnival and try to absolve myself of all the Meeran blood that stains my hands by reaching out to their ancient kin, which is something a boy like yourself cannot hope to understand.”

He drew his dagger blade across Mikkol’s hair slowly and Mikkol flinched as he heard several strands break. Jonor hissed in his ear.

“Perhaps I should do just what your village elders have undoubtedly decreed by now and cut this off myself. I wonder if your sister still has hers. The last time I saw her, your father was contemplating shortening it for her. I have never seen a man so angry – No. Exceptions.”

He allowed the import of his words to settle on Mikkol before he let go of the boy’s braid and stood up, resheathing his knife.

“You shouldn’t believe everything village rumours tell you. And I know your little wife better than you think, even though you clearly don’t know me very well at all. The next few months are going to be hard for both of you. If you ever want to talk about it, believe me I understand better than anyone. But only if you’re going to talk sensibly, mind you, no more of this arrogant petulance.”

Jonor walked away to the tent he shared with Fron and Hanble, leaving Mikkol sprawled on the ground, rubbing his ribs gingerly.

Fron was leaning on a tree nearby, picking the dirt from under his fingernails with a sharp stick.

“That was impressive,” he remarked. “I have never seen anyone rile Jonor like that.”

Mikkol was pale and quiet, all the temper knocked out of him.

“Is what he said true?” he asked Fron. “Was my father really that angry?”

Fron threw the stick away and came over to sit by the worried young man. He picked at the grass, avoiding Mikkol’s eyes.

“It was true,” he said quietly. “Taya rushed over the bridge, screaming about you two being traitors, and when she finished her story she got a mouthful of knuckles for her trouble.”

“Father struck Taya?” asked Mikkol, incredulous. “He’s never done that before.”

“Yeah. That was right before he reduced the bridge to so much kindling. Then he shouted some, and finally he grabbed your sister’s hair and was about to restyle it, but Prince Illion stopped him. Nula’s parents took Taya home. I guess it’ll be a while before we know what happened after that. Didn’t Nula tell you this when we found you?”

“She said they were angry and hurt, but she didn’t go into details. She did say our fathers disowned us though.”

“Hmm. So you knew that much. Why’d you go off at Jonor like that then? He was only trying to help you. And you know he understands you better than anyone else here.”

“He doesn’t know me,” persisted Mikkol, bristling again. I wasn’t afraid to fight and I wouldn’t feel ashamed to kill an enemy while defending my people. I never felt like I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t afraid of what people might think if they knew the real me – they all knew the real me. I did it for Aysh; it was all to protect Aysh.”

Fron chuckled derisively. “Oh, I see. You think you’re better than Jonor, better than Aysh even, and you should have no stain on your name. Well it doesn’t work that way, does it? Your father doesn’t care that you think your motives were pure! He thinks Aysh is - how did he put it? – oh, yes, a ‘perverted, insidious schemer’, a ‘vixen’ who ‘corrupted’ and ‘defiled’ you with her ‘depraved beliefs’. He doesn’t see you as having rescued a damsel in distress; he believes she seduced you and turned you into a traitor. He said you were dead to him.”

Mikkol looked pale and queasy; Fron was afraid he might actually vomit.

“Did he really say that?” Mikkol’s voice was barely a whisper.

Realising he might have gone too far, Fron tried to offer some words of comfort. “Look, I can see your side. I believe you thought you were doing the right thing. I can see you love her. But you were still way out of line talking to Jonor like that. Even if he doesn’t understand you, he really gets Aysh. Surely you can see that.”

“Maybe,” conceded Mikkol. “I suppose he makes me feel guilty. I mean, growing up he was the by-word for traitorous rebel. Now, I guess that will be us. Me and Aysh, reviled for generations. We didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just want her to be happy.”

“Of course you do; you love her. And believe it or not, I agree with you. Your parents can’t control who you are or how you live your life. Your culture is fairly conformist. It’s not surprising that someone leaves every so often. Actually I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often given how many other, different cultures live around you.”

Mikkol nodded. “We’re taught to treat other peoples with respect, but without regarding their views as right. It works for us most of the time. But Aysh is different. It wasn’t that she wanted to be like a Pixie or an Elf; she just didn’t want to be told that she couldn’t do ALL the things Equiseen do – including stuff only boys are meant to do.”

“I see that,” nodded Fron. “She’s strong and capable. She doesn’t want to be told what to do. Free spirit. She’d fit in at the carnival – if what she wanted to do with that freedom wasn’t chop people into spare parts. We’re not big into fighting.”

“And yet you’ve all joined this war,” observed Mikkol.

“Not us. We’re going to the Seeress of Lomoohr to find out how to fix whatever it is that’s interfering with the weather and killing the trees. We’re not planning on doing any fighting. Still, glad to have you along, just in case the need arises. I think you should apologise to Jonor, though.”

“I will. And thanks.”

Fron nodded and went over to sit with his brother by the fire while they waited for dinner to cook. Mikkol decided to waste no time in making things right with Jonor and went over to his tent. Hovering outside, he coughed nervously.

“I’d knock, but the door isn’t very solid,” he began, hoping levity might ease the conversation. Jonor emerged from the tent in a low stoop and stood, waiting.

“I behaved badly,” said Mikkol.

“You did,” confirmed Jonor sternly.

“You were trying to help, to be friendly, and I said some terrible things.”

“You did,” repeated Jonor, matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry. I let my own guilt and remorse flare out of control and you were the likeliest target. But that’s not an excuse. It won’t happen again. Could you possibly forgive me?”

Jonor appeared to be thinking very seriously about this question for a moment, then he looked Mikkol squarely in the eye and held out his hand.

“Do you know, I believe I could,” he smiled. “It will be strange to have other people around who look like me, but at least someone else will understand the problems of sitting on tree stumps and crawling out of tents with legs that don’t bend the wrong way in the middle.”

“Hey,” said Emerden, who was passing the tent on his way to get some dinner. “It’s your legs that are on backwards, not ours!”

Mikkol felt momentarily uneasy, hearing the others make disparaging comments in this way, but he soon realised it was in the nature of a running joke between the old friends, and no one was taking any offense.

“But legs work so much better when they have a proper stifle, cannon bone and fetlock. SO much more speed and spring! Knees and feet are so inefficient,” continued Jonor.

“Not for sitting on tree stumps or crawling out of tents,” rejoindered Emerden as if that were the concluding argument. “Come on; the stew will go cold.”

“I don’t see how; the pot’s sitting on a fire,” protested Jonor as he walked with Emerden to the circle of rocks and tree stumps that surrounded the camp fire. They were both laughing as they continued bickering and Mikkol could sense the deep bond of affection between them. Aysh was sitting with Nula near the fire, having been out of ear shot by the stream when he had fought with Jonor. He smiled at her, feeling quite lucky that they’d fallen in with such a warm, caring group of friends.

In the Royal Chambers of Theyos Raal, King Tilarion sat by the window, staring out at the sunset. On the other side of the room, Princess Lorissa was nursing her infant daughter while Queen Aeleessa cuddled her milk-saturated grandson to sleep. The baby girl finished her feed and Lorissa pulled her robe together and put the baby up on her shoulder to wind her.

“I feel like I never do anything but feed them, mother,” remarked Lorissa, stifling a yawn. “I’m so tired all the time. Every three hours; one, then the other.”

“That’s how tiny babies are, dear,” said Aeleessa reassuringly. “Treasure these moments, for all too soon they will pass. One day, you’ll turn around and they’ll be celebrating their hundredth New Turning and you’ll wonder where the time went. She bent her head over the snoozing baby in her arms and kissed him gently on the forehead.

“Little Doradin,” she crooned. “How loved you are.” The little boy sneezed and rubbed his face with both hands before settling down again. His sister burped noisily and deposited a mouthful of curdled milk on the cloth on Lorissa’s shoulder.

“Good girl, Elody,” praised the besotted princess as she cleaned the baby’s face.

Sitting by the darkened window, Tilarion smiled tersely. He had endured a tense three weeks since the planning was over and Illion had left with sixty of the forest’s finest bowmen and half the Norns. The abrupt depopulation of the city had left Tilarion feeling pensive. Women walked the halls with worry lines etched into their faces; mute evidence of the toll his decision had taken on the families under his rule. Husbands, brothers and sons had marched away from the forest, and in some few cases sisters or daughters (not wives since the Norns by tradition remained unmarried). He would not know for many weeks how many would return home.

That was not the only problem bothering him though. He had placed two of his oldest counsellors under house arrest seven weeks since, and had as yet made few preparations to try their case. He had pored over the council documents of the time, reviewing exactly what had been said by whom, to calculate precisely how responsible each person was for driving the decision. He had consulted the few law books in the library which pertained to the conduct of his own people, and also those which covered the governance of the Manguin towns and even the far cities of the Myrials. The problem seemed to be that the character and spirit of his people was such that little was usually required by way of jurisprudence. The King governed by decree, advised by his council, and the Elves were so characterised by their gentle wisdom and benevolence that little else was usually needed. In this case however Tilarion felt that justice required an impartial viewpoint. He was too caught up in the matter to be sure that he would be fair. Unfortunately, the one person he could usually turn to for advice was one of those under arrest. Who could he appoint to defend Ronvin and Chelm? Who would do their best to persuade him he was wrong to be angry, to be disgusted by their suppression of the truth? Tilarion turned the question over and over in his mind, but the answer eluded him. Meanwhile, his daughter wavered between the ecstasy of new motherhood, the exhaustion of that same condition and the perpetual worry that her beloved prince might never return to them.

Aeleessa lit candles all over the room as the sun bid them goodnight and disappeared over the cliffs to the west. Pausing at her husband’s chair, taper in hand, she laid a fond kiss on his cheek.

“It will be alright,” she said comfortingly.

“I hope so,” replied Tilarion, sighing deeply as if to breathe away all his heavy cares.

Three days later Reem led her small group into the outermost valley of the foothills. The stream they had been following began high in the mountains to their right and they must leave its bubbling merriness and cross the valley floor. They all filled their water skins, as well as the extra ones strapped to the horses, and set out toward the north eastern end of the valley where another stream flowed out of the foothills toward Lake Lomoohr. Aysh was now only slightly debilitated by her morning sickness, taking her share of camp chores and keeping up easily with the group. She had chosen to walk in front with Reem that morning as the nimble Pixie skipped over the rough, stony ground. Despite being a clear two feet taller than her companion Aysh didn’t need to slow her pace to maintain their conversation and it surprised her how quick Reem was, effortlessly leading the way with a dancing gait that spoke of her joy in travelling the realm, as she had done with her mother for many Turns. Mikkol remained in the centre of the group, walking beside Jonor and absorbing his advice and guidance like a schoolboy at lessons. He still felt keenly the guilt and internal conflict that had driven him to insult Jonor days earlier, though he strove to keep his struggle from affecting his feelings for Aysh. She was suffering the loss of her family too, he realised, and also acclimatising to the reality of her pregnancy, and she was being so patient and loving with him. He fought the urge to blame her in any way for their decision to leave. Jonor had been a great comfort to him since their fight and Mikkol was growing to depend on the older Equiseen’s counsel.

Suddenly the horses shied in fright, snorting and pulling their lead reins, their eyes wild. A flitting shadow passed over the group, swooping and darting madly across the valley. Shielding their eyes from the noon sun’s bright rays, the group scanned the sky for the shadow’s source, fearing the worst. Their fears were confirmed when they saw the large, winged creature descending on them from a great height. The wings were angular and dark and the lithe limbs of a male Haraquin were visible behind and in front. There was something disturbing about his flight though, beyond the mere fact of there being a Haraquin plummeting toward them. His limbs were flailing erratically and there was no consistent direction or path as he dove this way and that above them. Fron and Hanble struggled to calm their frightened horses while Aysh and Mikkol drew their swords in readiness. Nula glanced to where her bow and quiver were tied to Millie’s pack, but she realised she would never be able to reach them safely while the horses were so panicked. Jonor and Emerden drew their daggers, though they were far more used to using them when hunting or to cut wood than in combat.

The Haraquin was almost upon them now and they could see that he was clutching at his throat, flapping wildly in an attempt to control the speed of his descent. The group scattered in all directions as he dropped like a large stone among them, landing with a sickening thud and an audible crack as at least one bone was broken. He screamed in pain, although the sound was constricted as though his throat had closed up. He clawed at his neck with his free hand, the other arm bent behind him at a strange angle. The Haraquin groaned in pain, gritting his teeth against the agony of his broken body. His great, black, leathery wings had folded in on themselves and lay limply on the ground. Fron and Hanble had walked the horses a short distance away and tied them to a tree, facing in the other direction. They walked back to the group, who were debating what to do.

“He’s badly hurt,” said Nula. “We should try to help him.”

“Help a Haraquin? He’ll rip your arms off if you go near him!” retorted Mikkol.

“I doubt he could hurt anyone right now. Look at him!” reasoned Emerden. “He can’t be more than fifteen Turns.”

“That doesn’t matter. They’re taught to kill from the cradle,” insisted Mikkol. “I say we walk away.”

Hanble looked at him in disgust. “Leave an injured boy to die of exposure, in agony and alone. What kind of monster are you?”

Mikkol rounded on him and was about to shout an angry reply when four more shadows appeared on the ground among them, followed by the graceful descent of the Haraquin who had cast them.

“Look out!” shouted Fron as they swooped down like hungry falcons plunging towards unsuspecting rabbits. The others had already noticed though and were backing hastily away from the injured stranger. His companions landed in a circle around him and faced down the group with menacing looks and threatening growls. One who seemed to be the leader shouted at them aggressively in a harsh, guttural language they did not understand. Emerden shook his head and motioned to his ears to indicate their lack of understanding. The Haraquin leader tried again, this time adding wide arm gestures to illuminate his meaning. He was met with blank yet fearful stares. Kerise nervously stepped forward, raising her hand.

“I could try something, if it’s alright. I might be able to help us understand each other.”

The Haraquin shouted at her suspiciously, but Emerden nodded and Kerise held up her hands palms out, to indicate that her intentions were peaceful.

“Please, go ahead and try,” said Emerden.

Kerise spoke the words of the spell while weaving the strands of magic out of the air. The Haraquin shouted angrily and started moving towards her, clearly believing her to be threatening them in some way but Kerise bravely stood her ground, focussing all her concentration on the spell. Emerden noticed it as a faint buzzing at first; the sort of noise you hear when there’s a fly in the room and you can’t quite locate it. It grew until it was all he could hear, filling his head with the fuzzy, distorted sound. Looking around him, he could tell that everyone else was hearing it too. The Haraquin seemed to be finding it particularly disconcerting, but at least it was preventing them from coordinating any sort of attack. Then all at once it cleared and his head felt normal again, but fresher somehow, as if someone had cleaned it out from the inside. He spoke quietly to Kerise.

“What spell did you weave? I don’t hear anything different.”

“That’s because they haven’t spoken yet,” she replied. “Wait.”

The head of the Haraquin leader snapped round to face them as they spoke. He shouted at them again, but this time, although his voice sounded just as harsh and aggressive as before, they could understand his words perfectly. It wasn’t that he was speaking Manguin, or that they would suddenly have been able to reply in his own tongue, but their comprehension was altered dramatically.

“Leave here!” he was shouting at them. “This place my land. You go! If not – we kill.”

“Please!” cried Nula. “We mean you no harm. We are only passing through this place. We are headed north – to the Lomoohr Mountains.”

The Haraquin laughed at her, a sound totally devoid of humour.

“You? You harm us? Ha! We kill you like rabbits.”

“No, please!” continued Nula. “There’s no need. We’re going. Only – he’s injured. He can’t breathe. I’m a healer; I can help him.”

Fron shook his head and muttered quietly, “She just can’t help herself, can she? Has to fix everything. I bet they won’t take it kindly if she tries and he dies anyway though. And they might just have been going to let us walk away.”

Mikkol nodded in agreement, but Emerden shot them both a warning glance. “Have a little compassion,” he suggested. “He’s only a boy.”

“Mikkol was right; he’d have ripped your throat out as soon as look at you, if he hadn’t forgotten how breathing works just now,” replied Fron through clenched teeth.

The Haraquin leader was now looking at the boy on the ground as if noticing for the first time how severe his fall had been. He turned back to Nula.

“What is ‘healer’?” he asked, although the Manguin word sounded as if it didn’t want to be formed by the Haraquin mouth.

Nula was startled by the question. “It means I know how the body works and how to fix things when they are broken. Well, some things anyway.”

The Haraquin sneered at her. “I know how body work. Eat, sleep, fly, fight, hunt, kill, mate. Women also birth. If broken, weak or sick, body not work – then die. That is H’ah-tsu’uk.”

Nula looked at Kerise for an explanation as the word did not translate in her head, but Kerise looked baffled.

“What is ‘H’ah-tsu’uk’?” asked Nula, unsure if she was pronouncing it correctly and realising that when she had said ‘healer’ it must have sounded as strange to him and that was why he had to repeat it back to her, just as she was having to do now.

“It is.... the path of life, of sun-passings, of seasons, of birth-to-death. It is the-time-one-has. Then nothing. H’ah-tsu’uk.”

Nula realised that she was being given a lesson in Haraquin culture and philosophy that no outsider had ever heard before in all the history of the realm, and felt curiously privileged. She wondered if they would even let her help the boy. She decided to keep trying.

“Among our people, not all injuries mean death. Some things heal on their own, but some things need a little help. If you let me try, I might be able to help him. He doesn’t need to die. Perhaps this is not all of the time he has.”

The Haraquin leader turned and spoke more quietly with his people, seeming to consider whether Nula’s words might actually have any merit. At last he turned back to her.

“You fix,” he instructed. “If boy live, you go. If you lie, all die.”

Nula drew in a nervous breath and took a step toward the injured youth. “I need my kit,” she said. “Hanble will you fetch it from the horses please?” To the Haraquin leader she added, “I need to examine him.”

The leader nodded curtly and they stood back a little so that she could approach.

Nula approached the boy and knelt beside him. Turning to Kerise she asked, “How’s your vision magic? Can you tell me why he can’t breathe?”

“I can try,” answered Kerise, drawing nearer, but one of the Haraquin blocked her path, bearing his fanged teeth menacingly.

The leader regarded Nula suspiciously. “Short Vna-biirschk is healer; fix boy. Tall Vna-biirschk is healer too?”

Nula wondered how many of these words there were going to be for which Kerise’s spell could not find a direct translation. She repeated the word back to the Haraquin as a question. He grunted.

“Is mean ‘Reviled-one-who-not-fortunate-to-be-born-Haraquin’ he explained. “Is it healer?”

Nula blanched a little, both at the xenophobic terminology and the use of the word ‘it’ to refer to Kerise. Frowning a little, she replied, “Yes, she will help me heal the boy.”

The Haraquin continued to watch their every move closely, but allowed them to continue unimpeded. Kerise kneeled down beside Nula. The boy was pale, verging on blue, his eyes rolling up into his skull. Kerise put her left hand on his throat and closed her eyes. She wove a picture in the air before her, pulling threads of magic to create the spell as she spoke the incantation which would bind it and focus its power. Feeling it surge through her fingers she opened her eyes, but instead of the scene she had previously beheld, she saw the tissues inside the boy’s neck, which were oedematous and swollen, blocking his wind-pipe. Moving her hand down over his chest she saw gold threads winding down through and around his lungs, filling and choking them. She lifted her hand, breaking the connection.

“He breathed something in up there,” she told Nula. “It looks like misty gold threads filling his lungs and making his throat all puffy.”

Hanble arrived at that point with Nula’s kit and she rummaged inside, pulling out two bottles and a small pouch. She opened one of the bottles and, using a pipette from her kit, drew up a small quantity of the green liquid. She squeezed three drops into the boy’s gaping mouth. His breathing was now quick and shallow, rasping in his swollen throat.

“That tonic should relax his throat and reduce the swelling,” said Nula. “It will help his breathing in the short term, but we must draw whatever that poisonous stuff is out of his lungs.”

Opening the small pouch, she removed a flat, yellow leaf which was oblong with a tubular protrusion at one end. This she placed on the boy’s tongue, holding very firmly to the flat end, and closed his mouth around it. The Haraquin leader barged toward them, roughly pushing Kerise aside and grabbing Nula’s arm. His claws dug painfully into her skin but she gritted her teeth and refused to cry out. His fanged face was close to hers as he growled, “What feed? Not eat leaves!”

“No, it’s not to eat,” explained Nula, stammering a little but trying to look unafraid. “It’s a strogash leaf; it will absorb the poison.”

Emerden had to use all his self-control to remain stationary. His fists clenched at his sides, mimicking the anxious knotting of his stomach as he was forced to watch Nula mistreated in this way, unable to do anything to help. The Haraquin grunted his assent and released her, straightening up in time to see the boy draw a deep breath, colour returning to his skin as he gulped in fresh air. Nula gently pulled the now-swollen leaf from his mouth and squeezed the golden mist held within it into the second bottle she had taken from her kit, quickly pushing the stopper back into place. The leaf, now empty, was blackened and dead looking and Nula discarded it.

Now that he was able to breathe again and not on the verge of unconsciousness, the boy very quickly became aware of how much pain he was in. He groaned and gasped, teeth and eyes firmly shut. Nula looked him over, seeing at once that his right arm was dislocated and his left leg was badly broken. Turning to the leader she warned him, “I need to reduce the dislocation and set that leg. It will be very painful for him, but it is necessary.”

“Yes, fix,” he replied. “Need fix arm and leg to hunt and fight. He strong; he bare pain well.”

Nula didn’t want to argue with him, but she was afraid that the boy would scream in pain and this would provoke a violent outburst from the distrustful bystanders. She looked around for a stick lying on the ground and finding one, she placed it between the boy’s teeth.

“Not to eat – bite down on it; for the pain,” she explained both to the boy and to his leader. Turning to Kerise, she said, “We’ll do the arm first.”

Gently, she lifted the boy’s arm across his body until it was extended in front of him. His eyes widened in surprise and pain but he did not make a sound. She held his lower and upper arm firmly in her hands and placed her right knee on his chest near the shoulder joint. Using her knee to hold him in place she gave a sharp jerk forwards and up on his arm, popping it back into the socket with a sickening clunk. The boy went pale again and bit down so hard on the stick it broke in two. He groaned in shock but then looked gratefully at Nula as he realised that the pain in his arm was subsiding. Turning to Emerden and Jonor, she asked them to fetch four sturdy branches; two to splint his leg and two more for a stretcher. The men headed for the same nearby copse of trees where the horses were picketed, pleased that for now, at least, their knives would be used only in the way to which they were accustomed.

“How did you learn to do all this?” Kerise asked her as she turned back to the injured youth. “I thought you were just a midwife.”

“My mother took me to watch the blacksmith in our village when I was training. He had an interesting sideline as a bone-setter. She learned all about herbs and plant medicine from her aunt, who was an apothecary in the forest. Mother often treats common ailments as well as being ‘just’ a midwife.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” apologised Kerise. “I don’t know much about other types of work; I’ve spent my whole life training to be a Norn.

“It’s okay,” smiled Nula. “I wasn’t really all that offended. Now, we need to set that leg before the blood stops flowing to his foot, or it will become useless.”

She removed several bandages from her kit and found a new stick for the boy to bite down on. “This is going to hurt. A lot,” she explained. The boy nodded and screwed up his face in anticipation of the pain. Nula looked at Kerise. “I need you to hold his leg still above the break while I set the bone,” she said.

Kerise did as she was asked and Nula took the boy’s knee firmly in her hands. He moaned and clamped his teeth around the stick as excruciating pain shot down his leg. His leader barked something at him which did not translate but which sounded like ‘hra-gar’uk’ and he set his face bravely and clenched his fists, nodding at Nula to continue. Seeing Nula’s mystified face the leader explained again, in an exasperated tone, “Is mean ‘stop-mewling-like-infant-who’s-mother-dies-in-birthing-and-so-infant-has-no-milk’. You Vna-biirschk need many words for mind to see simple idea.”

Nula almost laughed, her mind reeling as much at being given a scolding for the inability to grasp apparently simple Haraquin concepts as at the clearly brutal realities of Haraquin life. Taking a firm grip on herself again and an equally firm grip on the boy’s leg she pulled it away from his body and to the right, straightening the bone with an audible crunch. Kerise looked as if she might be sick and the boy screamed once then passes out cold on the ground.

“Probably for the best,” considered Nula as she placed one of the supple, narrow tree limbs Jonor and Emerden had just returned with on each side of the injured leg. She asked the Haraquin for one of the furs they used as clothing to pad the splint and prevent the braches from causing further pain to the broken leg. Having obtained this, she wound bandages round the splint from one end to the other. With her last bandage she made a sling for the arm which had been dislocated. Fortunately the boy had landed face down and collapsed his wings before rolling onto his back, so they were undamaged. Nula had no experience in treating broken wings and was not keen to experiment. Glancing behind her she saw that Jonor and Emerden had used some rope to create a hammock-like stretcher from the two longer branches. She turned back to the Haraquin leader to ask how they planned to carry him.

“Will you be able to take the stretcher between you up the mountain? I have no idea what the terrain is like up there or how far it is to your home.”

He considered this for a few seconds before answering. “Tie him on. We fly home. Faster. He fix now?”

“I’ve done everything I can. He will need to rest the leg for several weeks while the bone mends. No hunting, okay?”

“He sit with infants till all fix. Other youth laugh and jeer, but he not starve. He bare pain well.”

Nula realised that there was probably no conception of medicine among the Haraquin and she offered a vial of blue liquid. “If he takes a few drops of this three times a day it will ease his pain,” she explained.

The Haraquin shook his head. “No; is must show qu’rik-na. He bare pain well. To show not weak. To stop laughing. You understand?”

Again Nula was surprised by the complexity of the thought process and realised that she had always assumed the Haraquin to be an uncivilised and backward race, because of their xenophobia and war-like ways. She felt ashamed that she should be guilty of such an assumption and she nodded, smiling at him. “I understand. He is very brave, your son.” This was pure conjecture on Nula’s part and she waited for his reaction.

“How you know this?” he barked at her, suddenly made suspicious again by her seemingly mystic knowledge.

“It was a guess,” she admitted. “The way you look at him; your pride in his bravery. It’s the same for fathers everywhere; Elf, Equiseen, Manguin – it doesn’t matter. Fathers love their sons.”

Mikkol looked at his feet, fighting for control of his emotions as Nula’s words bit into a very raw nerve. The Haraquin regarded Nula quizzically, as if this commonality between their races had never occurred to him before. He looked around at his companions, as if to see what they made of the Pixie’s opinions. Nula tried to eavesdrop on their conversation but she couldn’t quite make it out. Finally he turned back to address them.

“I am Qu’gor Vna-Hariisk. I must thank you. My son live, now. We owe debt. Why you go through valley?”

“We seek the Seeress of Lomoohr,” replied Emerden. “There is a strange sickness among the trees of the Great Summer Forest. A traveller came from the far North and told of terrible storms and harsh weather there, killing his people. We seek answers and a way to fix the problem.”

The Haraquin leader seemed to find this amusing. “Vna-biirschk try to fix whole world! You all big healers, yes?! Mountains cold – too cold for small Vna-biirschk. We give furs – to repay debt. You wait.” He turned and issued a curt order to two of his companions, who turned abruptly and with a slight bend of their knees and the draughty beating of their huge wings, launched themselves into the sky. An uncomfortable silence ensued as they all waited for their return. Hanble, who was standing next to Reem, muttered to her, “I hope they only went to fetch furs and not their friends.”

The leader, whose interest in matters beyond his own territory seemed to have been piqued for the first time by this encounter, spoke again to Nula. “You have small number to fix whole world,” he observed dryly, with a hint of what could have been a smile.

Nula returned it more effusively. “We have many friends who are travelling by another route to help.”

In an even larger gamble than when she guessed at his paternal connection to the boy she added, “They plan to reach the Chasm and free the Jentsie people from your relations, the Raquin.”

Fron, trying to rein in a near fit of apoplexy, made strange splutterings in Emerden’s direction, while his eyes and the veins in his neck stood out in consternation. “Can’t you control her at all?!” he hissed.

“Not noticeably,” murmured Emerden mildly. “Be still; have a little faith.”

“What is ‘Raquin’,” asked the Haraquin, to everyone’s astonishment.

“The group of your people who left centuries ago after a terrible fight,” explained Nula. “They flew north and enslaved the Jentsie people of Centre’s Tree by the Chasm of the North.”

“Group left after fight and flew north?” repeated the Haraquin, then realisation seemed to dawn as his furrowed brow cleared. “Greedy youths, want jewels – they banished. Not die in desert?”

“No, they didn’t die in the desert,” confirmed Emerden, relieved beyond belief that Nula’s gamble seemed to be paying off. “In fact they drove the Jentsies from their homes in the tree and have tortured and terrorised them ever since, though we didn’t know how badly until recently. We hope to end their time in power quite soon.”

“Fight? Kill?” questioned the Haraquin. Emereden nodded and the leader continued, “This good plan. Haraquin elders not know this. Haraquin not have business killing Jentsie – Jentsie never walk in our land, take our food. Greedy Haraquin youths not right to invade Jentsie territory, steal food, steal land. We think on this; talk with elders. You go now.”

There was a swoosh from above and a pile of furred garments landed on the ground near the group. The remaining Haraquin on the ground lifted the stretcher, onto which they had tied their injured companion while their leader was talking with Nula and Emereden, and took off. The leader nodded to the group and followed them.

They watched them go until they were mere specks in the distance, then seemed to let out their collective breath all at once. Hanble and Reem burst into unexpected and uncontrollable laughter, holding onto each other for support as their tension burst from them. Fron watched this unjustified hilarity with disgust and stalked off, muttering to himself, to retrieve the horses. Nula calmly tidied up her kit and brushed the grass off her leggings, watched by the trembling Kerise.

“How can you be so calm?” she gasped. “Every second I thought one of them was going to spill my guts onto the ground like a pound of sausages!”

“Very descriptive,” observed Jonor dryly. “And just when I was beginning to think about dinner.”

Kerise smiled in spite of herself and trembled a little less. Jonor hugged the tall Elf girl, who almost matched the lithe Equiseen for height, and she began to chuckle. By the time Fron walked back over with George and Millie, even Mikkol had joined in the stress-relieving joke.

Emerden shook his head. “I can’t believe you tried to recruit a bunch of Haraquin warriors to our cause!” he laughed. “General Nula, flight platoon!”

“She could have gotten us all killed,” insisted Fron, who seemed determined to focus on the negative possibilities of the encounter. He handed Millie’s reins to Soorah, who was standing quietly to one side, biting back her smile. “At least you haven’t joined in with this ridiculous behaviour,” He noted. “Come on, we need to reach that other stream before sun down. What do we have for dinner?”

“Sausages?” suggested Soorah mischievously, which set everyone off again, much to Fron’s bewilderment.