Chapter Twenty-eight: Raven to the Rescue

Ottavar shook his head and snorted as hard as he could. Pain had made his eyes water and loosened a flow of mucus. The snot stuck to his face; Vashoner laughed. They had traveled a good distance north and westward. He wondered when and where they were going to stop. The afternoon was getting old. It was the longest afternoon Ottavar had ever known.

They must be somewhere near where Radovin had hidden out. That was a good choice, he supposed, if you wanted to do something in secret. Years ago he had come out this way to seek a vision undisturbed. Radovin knew the terrain much better. That wasn't much help right now; Rado had no more idea than anyone else that he was here.

"Hai! We stop here. Over this way." Vashoner prodded his left arm. Ottavar turned toward the pain. Just a little farther, he promised himself. Just a little farther.

They headed into a round, shallow mini-valley, a sinkhole formed when the roof of a cave collapsed and filled it in. Steep walls of fractured limestone surrounded it, a little over man-height. The rock had crumbled to form a ramp of broken slabs down part of this side. He managed to get to the bottom without falling. Bare rock with grass growing in the cracks made a rough path through a tangle of low shrubs to a wider open area on the far side. Someone had camped here before; a crude hearth held signs of a fire that had burned out a few rains ago.

Vashoner made no objection when Ottavar halted and leaned against the rough stone wall. His legs trembled. He had mixed feelings about reaching the end of this journey. On one hand, it meant an end to the constant tension of keeping his balance on rough ground with his arms immobilized. On the other hand, even without the stomach-dropping hints Vashoner had let out on the way, he knew he'd never leave this place alive. He watched his captor through half-closed eyes.

The man sat on a blocky section of fallen stone by the rude hearth and took a drink from a small waterskin. Ottavar tried not to think about water. His tongue was stuck to the gag. Flies buzzed around him, crawling on his back, his face, everywhere, attracted by oozing blood. After a time he took a piss, spattering his feet even though he spread his legs like a woman. Then he sat on another ledge at the base of the low cliff. The sun had warmed the rocks; it wouldn't be cold for a while yet.

Vashoner rose to prepare for the fall of night. He collected dead branches from the shrubs, looking up occasionally.

Ottavar wondered what was going on back at the camp. If anyone had found out that he was gone, they would be looking for him. But no one was supposed to disturb him, he was not expected to leave his tent even to take a squat. By the time they realized he was gone, it would be too late.

If only he'd left word that he was running off, but no--it wasn't far, he had to hurry, he'd send the boy back for someone else, ayah. He tried to quiet the swarming questions and self-blame, let go of the pain, open his mind to the will of the spirits. Vashoner soon spoiled his attempted meditation.

"We-e-ell, don't you look comfortable there. Her Nibs should be here soon, and then we'll have our little party." His smile gave Ottavar crawling goose bumps. "Take off your moccasins," the man ordered abruptly. Ottavar tried to ignore him.

"Go on, take'm off," he demanded, rapping at Ottavar's ankles with the butt of his spear. "Or would you rather I fixed your legs so you can't walk? I have to keep you alive for Herself, but it's not your legs she wants."

Ottavar stared at the ground. A flint blade waved in front of his eyes. His own knife, made just a few moons ago and recently retouched--very sharp. It flicked across his chest in a stinging line, but he held still. Only a break in the rhythm of his breathing betrayed him. Vashoner laughed. "I'd take the gag out so I could hear you scream, but then maybe you'd curse me, ah?"

The knife cut a deeper gash on his other breast, another slanting across his abdomen. Ottavar jerked from the pain, then he kicked out clumsily. Vashoner stepped back, easily avoiding it. "Oh, ho, there's a little fight in you after all. That's good. You'll be lots of fun later. When Herself gets here you'll wish you could scream." He struck Ottavar hard on the side of the knee with his spear shaft. "Now take off the moccasins, fancy-face, and don't fuck around. I didn't get any sleep this morning and I'm in no mood."

Ottavar clenched his eyelids shut. The blow had been one of those that sends the pain straight up the backbone to the eyes and temporarily paralyzes the limb. He wriggled the moccasins off.

Vashoner kicked the moccasins aside, then picked them up. Through a blur, Ottavar watched him put the knife back in a pouch on his belt and turn away, walking toward the broken slope they had come down earlier.

Ottavar slumped. Why would Ambelda go to all this trouble for revenge, if that's what it was. Vahé! What did she have to gain, how did she expect to get away with it? They could hide his body, but there would be no quiet acceptance. Not this time.

Vashoner continued up the slope and out of sight. If he could get his hands loose...he moved over and twisted himself around to get his wrists low enough to rub the thong against the stone. Fresh blood trickled down his front. He wasn't losing enough to kill, but the cumulative effect of many small wounds was weakening him.

It was useless, he couldn't outrun Vashoner now, even with moccasins. Good spirits, help me. Help my people, free them from whatever makes men do this--what lets them enjoy doing this! Life was such a fragile thing. How could anyone become an enemy of his own kind when weather, mishap, hunger and sickness already took so many lives?

His stomach clenched when he heard Vashoner answer a distant hail. Ambelda had arrived. He closed his eyes again. If only it were possible to speak to the mind of another over a distance. He would never see those he loved again or hear their voices, never feel the warm touch of their hands. There would be no farewell, only his silent thoughts in the wind.

Ambelda's complaints cut through him, an overtone of his myriad pains. He opened his eyes to see his captors descending into the hollow. Vashoner supported Ambelda on one side. Fredo and Haro brought up the rear, sullen-faced and laden with bulky packs.

The woman stopped in front of Ottavar. She looked confused for a moment. Then her eyes changed.

Ottavar had seen that mad glare before, in Ivergan's eyes. Now he understood. Some possessing spirit had made Ivergan what he was. Ambelda was possessed by an evil thing that was powerful, probably far from sane in any human sense, and hungry. Denied Radovin's spirit, it would settle for his. He half-closed his eyes and held himself rigid. Running and screaming would have been desirable options.

Vashoner gestured to his cohorts to move on. Ambelda, or whatever looked through her eyes, continued to scrutinize Ottavar. She touched his chest, looked at the red smear of clotted blood on her fingertip. Then she licked her finger and smiled.

Kayotar had liked to debate questions such as the nature of evil. "Evil," he had told Ottavar, "is the absence of good. It's that simple. But it's never simple." Like a lot of things Kayotar had said, it made sense, but the sense of it ran off in so many directions you couldn't get a firm grip on it. A personification of evil was easier to understand. Nothing made evil incarnate any easier to face.

His only consolation was that they would not be able to do much more damage. Whatever scheme the demonic thing had cooked up in Ambelda's soup-pot of a head, it had no hope of success. She was no sorcerer; she lacked the training and discipline to wield stolen power, even to be a good tool. The Dedicated would unite against it as soon as they knew what had happened. May all good be with them.

While Ambelda and her porters rested in the warmth of a newly kindled fire, Ottavar shivered in the growing chill of nightfall. So this was what it felt like to be doomed. No wonder Rado got a little warped. He wondered if he could will himself to die before the sacrifice could be consummated. Of course choking to death on vomit would do the trick, but his stomach was empty.

According to what he overheard, Ambelda wanted a nap after her walk. He had until the moon passed midheaven to live. Perhaps he could manage it. The moon had not come over the edge of the sinkhole yet. He bent his thoughts toward utter darkness.

Despair did not suit Ottavar well, and he couldn't let go of his need to warn his people of the danger. He opened his eyes to look up at the star-filled sky, to send one last plea to the Lady of Light.

Radovin heard only the drum; he was empty of all but one purpose. Up, up and out he floated, leaving his body to attend to the mechanical motions of breathing and tapping the drum. A raven flew high over the ring of tents and soared in widening circles. Below him spread a network of fine golden filaments that met in bright knots. He sought the tenuous thread that tied him to one node.

There, to the west and north, that glow--it flickered, partly obscured by something else. The dark power was in the same place. Radovin reached out toward the beacon of spirit-light that was Ottavar.

A rush through the void and he was there, yet not there; he could see, but not touch. Ottavar sat in the outer reaches of a circle of firelight. His eyes were closed, and--oh, good spirits!--he was streaked with blood. At the hearth sat the three raiders, and that which was now Ambelda. Radovin felt a terrible need to help Ottavar, to do something to fight the horror that took the form of a fat-assed woman. It filled him like a silent scream.

As if he heard that scream, Ottavar opened his eyes. The mute desperation in them cut Radovin's heart.

Something pushed him from behind. Pahm!--the ground struck his feet and his legs crumpled, unprepared. Cool air brushed his skin, he heard shouts of surprise. Oh, shit.

Ottavar's eyes widened at the unexpected sound--like the explosive breakup of a badly chosen cooking stone--and the gust of air. His captors were rising to their feet with exclamations of surprise. What struck him numb was the figure that had entered the scene out of nowhere: Radovin, picking himself up off the ground with a look of utter astonishment. Rado's right eye was peeking out now, almost as wide as the left. For a split second his gaze met Ottavar's.

Then Radovin leaped into the air crying "Yaaaahhhhh!" and waving his arms wildly. He spun about as he landed and took off running.

The others sat or stood with their mouths hung open for another long breath. Vashoner recovered first. He barked a few words at Harolen. They leaped away after the fleeing apparition, spears in hand. Ottavar watched them disappear into the night, the drumming of his heart drowning their footfalls.

He ran like a deer in the moonlight, his mind racing ahead of his feet. Two of them followed, at least. Please, let them keep following until he could think of something. There was light enough that--ah, he knew very well where he was, and it gave him an idea. If Old Mama was at home.... He veered off leftward.

Radovin stopped. He smelled bear--or at any rate bear shit; he must have stepped right in fresh scat. "Yah, come and get me, you mother-defilers," he shouted. A deep grunt answered from the dense shadows. Yes! He tore away, heedless of thorny shrubs. Behind him he heard an angry roar and a ghastly, gurgling scream.

He slowed and finally stopped again, panting. More shrieks of terror and bear sounds had followed the first horrible cry. One down, at any rate, and the other probably shitting his clout.

Think, he told himself, and do it fast. He patted his belt, making a quick inventory. Knife, that's good. Pouches, what's in...yes! He had his sling. Not the old worn-out one, but a new one he'd made from good elk hide. He had tried it out just enough to get the feel of it. Showed off, actually--Jero had insisted. Thank the Good Ones, he hadn't bothered to strip off before starting this hunt.

He started back toward the hollow at a trot, making a wide circle around the bear's den. On an eroded slope, he paused to pick up as much ammunition as he could find; any stone the right size, no time to fuss about the shape. His rock pouch, a sturdy new one Sumi had made for him, thumped heavily against his hip. Good thing he had a new belt too. He stopped once more to gather stones. The weight could cut his speed and maneuverability, but he wanted a good supply ready at hand. He had never hunted at night before, or such dangerous prey.

It could have been worse. Had he chosen to be proficient with a throwing-stick rather than the sling--vah!. It would take more than one good shot to settle this. He paused to raise his arms to the sky and give thanks for the moonlight. How in the name of all the spirits good or bad he had gotten here--really here, physically--he had no idea. But Ottavar needed help, and there was no one else handy.

He was soon close enough to hear the good news. Without Vashoner's brutal cunning, the misbegotten alliance was falling apart. Haro was whining that they couldn't do anything against a sorcerer who could turn himself into a bear. Fredo was yelling at him to get it together, it was just that scabby wall-rat Radovin. Ambelda was telling them both to shut up and find out who else was lurking out there.

He stole forward until he could see the firelit trio of human predators. Ottavar lay on the ground on the opposite side of the hearth from them. That made his stomach hurt, until he saw the shaman's head move. No, he wasn't too late. He ducked back as one of the men turned, but there was no sign he'd been spotted. One stone in his sling and another ready in his left hand, he edged into a better position from which to shoot.

Gah! It wasn't how much snot he had, but how little freedom to breathe that was choking him. Ottavar twisted his neck and tried to clear his nose. He had to inhale slowly and blow again. The rough ground bit into his cuts and his arms ached where they weren't numb.

Fredo had made him come closer to the hearth while the others were gone, made him lie down. The man was skittish, seeming as afraid of Ambelda as of anything else. With good reason, Ottavar thought. Then Haro had come back without Vashoner, gasping about a bear. His incoherent story had to be repeated over and over.

Ottavar's main concern was breathing and wondering if Ambelda might decide to get started early. And what exactly was going on--how could Radovin have gotten here, apparently popping out of thin air? His living nightmare had become as strange as any dream.

He heard a whish and a dull thwack. Ambelda's shriek drowned out the sound of the stone falling to the ground, but Ottavar saw it roll a short way after. Radovin was back!

A second stone hit low on the rock wall beyond them with a ringing crack. The two men looked wildly about. Then one of them yelped--the third stone did not miss.

Ottavar tried to roll farther from the hearth and get on his feet. It did not go well. Vah! If only he could help, distract them, do something. Rado was alone against two bullies and a possessed madwoman. More stones flew, causing more cries of pain and anger. A wild ululation came from above. Radovin sounded a lot more confident than Ottavar felt.

"You fools," Ambelda screamed, "point your spears at him, threaten to kill him and the jagal will stop!"

A moment later a stone struck true; she slumped to the ground and lay silent. Unfortunately, the frightened young men took her advice to heart. Two spear points pricked Ottavar's skin and Fredo shouted--a little shakily--"Stop or we'll kill him!"

For a few breaths Ottavar heard nothing but the crackling fire and air whistling in his own nose. Then Radovin's voice came from over the rim, clear and ice-hard with anger.

"If you hurt him, you're both dead."

Another silence followed. "Fredo," Harolen whispered, "I want out of this. Please."

"What're you going to do? Run home to Mama? There's only that rabbit-shagging runt. We've got him pinned, he can't do anything while his friend's on the end of our spears. See if Belda's all right, ah? That's who we have to worry about. She'll see that we come out all right, she said so."

Fredo didn't sound all that sure of himself either. Ottavar glared sidewise at him. The remaining spear point pressed against his throat kept him from moving his head.

"She's alive. Fredo, let's get out of here, ah? Vasho's dead, and I don't like this whole thing, mucking around with sorcery and all. That--"

"Shut up," Fredo hissed. "We can't go back if they know! We're in enough trouble already. We have to get that rat and shut him up for good. Go up and--"

"I'm not going out there alone in the dark!"

Fredo gave his brother a highly uncomplimentary name. "Hai, you up there," he called. "You, birdshit, show yourself!" There was no response. He yelled again, "Hai!"

The hoarse cr-ruk! of a raven answered him, eerily out of place in the night. Ottavar winced as the spear point moved with Fredo's nervous response.

"Show yourself, you ass-licking coward," Fredolen yelled, his voice high with tension.

Ottavar could see the other side of the sinkhole vaguely through the bushes. A dark silhouette rose slowly against the stars, larger than it should have been. It raised its arms--no, wings--huge, black wings!--and spoke in a harsh voice that echoed in the rock-walled depression.

"Begone! Leave this accursed place now, or the Eater of Souls will feast on you too before this night is over!"

As if on command, some knotty chunk of firewood exploded with a loud crack and a shower of sparks whirled into the sky. Harolen yelped. The twitching spear point nicked Ottavar's throat. One spark landed on his thigh, near enough spent that it burned out on contact. He barely noticed it.

"Fredo-o-o-o!" Harolen wailed. He tugged at his brother, and Ottavar felt the spear point lift, bumping his chin. With a grunt of effort he lunged away and tried again to get up on his knees. Bushes grabbed his hair. He heard running feet, a thwack and a yelp, more running. Ignoring the pain it caused--and the possible damage to his numb hands that felt no more pain--he rolled back the other way and managed to sit up. Dizziness danced in his head, threatening to kick his consciousness away into the dark.

Running feet approached, skidded on dry ground, and Radovin knelt in front of him. The bruised, dirt-streaked face was a beautiful sight.

In another moment Radovin had severed the thong that held the gag in place, along with some hair, and removed the wad of leather from his mouth. Ottavar worked his jaw and moved his tongue, trying to find some spit to moisten it. He gulped in the free air he had been craving for too long.

"Rado," he managed to croak. "Rado." His bedraggled savior was busy cutting the thong that bound his wrists. Ottavar moaned as renewed circulation woke new pain in his hands.

Radovin's warm hands rested on his shoulders, his eyes gazed anxiously into Ottavar's. "Can you get up?"

Ottavar nodded. He was horribly weak, stiff and awkward with cold, but he made it. He leaned heavily on the slight youth whom he could have picked up and slung over his shoulder only this morning. The rock that made a convenient seat by the fire had been covered with a bison hide for Ambelda's comfort. Radovin sat Ottavar on it and pulled the big pelt up around him after lifting off his medicine bag. The strap had left a deep groove imprinted on his shoulder, and the bag was stuck to his back with blood.

"How bad are you?"

"'S nothing. Little cuts. Thirsty...."

"Ah--yeah." Radovin quickly located one of the kidnappers' small water bladders and held it to Ottavar's lips. As much spilled as he managed to gulp in. "I don't think there's enough water to wash all your hurts," Radovin said. "There's no springs near enough." He sounded as if he blamed himself for the short water supply.

"Don't worry about it," Ottavar said. "I'll be all right. They'll be searching as soon as it's light, ah?" His voice was weak and hoarse, but he tried to summon a reassuring smile.

Radovin nodded. "At least they left your bag alone."

"Yeah."

"I...have to make sure that isn't going anywhere first," Radovin said, hesitantly. He jerked his head toward Ambelda's lumpy form. "And the--the thing. She must have it on her."

"Wha? Oh, yeah." There was a power object involved, then. Ottavar shivered, not from cold but from thoughts of what had almost happened, and what could still happen. "Be careful, ah?" Then he shook his head slowly. "Nah, never mind me. I think you should be telling me what to do."

Radovin gave him a forlorn look, and turned away to toss some thin twigs onto the spent fire. He blew at it and added larger pieces. It responded with leaping flames that lit a wide circle. He dug around in the raiders' abandoned gear and extracted a couple of thongs, leaving other items scattered. Ottavar watched him with a numb fixation.

Ambelda still lay where she had fallen. Radovin stood over her for a moment, sucking on his lower lip; then he rolled the unconscious woman onto her side, tugged her right arm out from under her, and bound her wrists behind her back.

Once she was secured, he touched her throat to feel her pulse. He nodded to himself and pulled her tunic a little farther out from her neck. His hands grasped something gingerly. He pulled it over her head, and stood up, holding a thong far out with thumb and forefinger. A dark pendant dangled, reflecting firelight in intermittent flashes like a winking red eye.

Radovin stared at it intently, as if holding a wordless conversation with the thing. Abruptly he strode away into the shadows beyond the firelight.

Ottavar let his head droop. He waggled his fingers and rubbed his hands together. They were scraped and cut, bruised, but otherwise intact. Their wooden numbness had shattered into piercing slivers of pain. He hurt in more places than he wanted to count.

His heart ached too. All the trouble he'd made, not using his head. His mind had been all on the coming rite of joining, taking Kewarratiwa to be his true-mate. Vahé! He'd run off like an idiot and now she and everyone else were torn by worry over him, not knowing where he was or even if he was alive. He had let Tiwa down. And Rado....

Radovin was the kind of person who had strong feelings and made strong attachments. His loyalty took hold without asking, but it made silent demands. Ottavar understood Radovin's need. He was just too cursed tired to fill it. After this night, he wasn't sure if he ever could. How do you play mentor to a favorite of Raven? What could he teach someone who could transport himself instantly from one place to another, create illusions with no props and preparation. What could he say to a young man who was at the same time a lonely boy and a wizard?

Damn you, Kayotar, why did you leave us with such a basket of scraps? His eyes filled with tears and he let them fall where they would. What a waste of water.

When Radovin came back, his hands held only dead branches, which he set by the hearth. He revived the fire with some of them, then sat next to Ottavar. "Let me see," he said softly, reaching toward the battered, swollen hands. "They hurt, ah?" He cupped his hands around them. The pain began to fade, replaced by warmth that flowed from Radovin's hands through his own, up his arms and beyond.

"Rado...I'm sorry...I let you down."

"What d'you mean?"

Ottavar shrugged one shoulder, and regretted it. Too many holes in his worthless hide. Oh, to the Underworld with it. He let loose his thoughts. "You...want someone to look up to, to be a good example; someone you can depend on. I don't seem to be doing a very good job. I get myself trapped like a fool, and...."

Radovin's hands went still; he gazed at the already dying fire. "Doesn't matter."

But it did. It mattered a lot to Ottavar, and there he went making things worse by opening his big mouth again. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I'm...just not feeling too good."

"'S all right. I know." Radovin's voice was soft, understanding. Ottavar felt even rottener.

The warm, long-fingered hands gently massaged Ottavar's for a while longer. Then Radovin got up. He shoved loose hair out of his face and squinted off into the darkness. The fire was down to ash-covered embers, no competition for the moonlight. Small brushwood didn't make a long-lasting blaze. "I wonder if they'll come back," he mused. He gave his head a quick shake that undid all his hair-pushing and sighed. "I need some stuff from your bag, ah?"

"Go ahead. You--" Ottavar stopped himself from saying "You don't have to ask." If Rado needed him to be an authority figure, he could at least try. "You're going to make a cold poultice, ah?" he said instead.

"Yeah." Radovin's lips turned up a little. Ottavar mustered a smile.

Radovin fed up the fire until it gave enough light to work by. He dug into the medicine bag, sniffing the herb packets, nodding to himself as he found what he wanted. Ottavar felt as if he were being tested and approved.

He clenched his teeth while Radovin cleaned ground-in dirt from his cuts, using piss to stretch the water supply. He gasped with pain once, and heard the young healer mutter, "The bear chose well."

Ottavar had nothing to say to that. Nor could he fault the bear.

Radovin began to chant as he worked the herbs into a slurry, casting one of those needful glances to which Ottavar replied with a nod and the best smile he could drag up.

When he had finished applying and tying on the poultices, Radovin pulled the warm bison hide back up around Ottavar's shoulders. "I'll make you a bed over there, under that overhang," he said. "It's safer."

Ottavar raised his head. "Ah. I don't want to sleep." That was pure crap and he knew it. Even the pain did little to keep him alert now.

Radovin added more of the dwindling supply of wood to the fire. "You need to rest," he said over his shoulder. Renewed flames sharpened his resemblance to Kayotar with stark shadows. The eyes were pure Radovin.

"You're right. I need to sleep. But this place gives me a bad case of the creeps."

"It would, yeah. Me too. But you have to lie down, anyway. I'll be watching out." Radovin started moving things back into the shadowed alcove.

He helped Ottavar hobble to the makeshift bed and eased him down, then covered him up and tenderly tucked him in. There was no such thing as a comfortable position, and every movement demanded its price in pain. Ottavar settled for lying very still.

"Sleep now," Radovin said. "I'll keep watch. Are you warm enough?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." He still felt chilled, but he couldn't ask Rado to crawl in with him. Vahé, somebody had to stay awake to keep the fire going. He'd be warm enough with all the furs piled over him. His eyes fell shut, but he forced them open once more. A black silhouette bent over him yet, against the firelit smoke haze. "Rado...thanks."

"What?"

"Oh, just for saving my life, that's all."

Radovin's shoulders rose jerkily. "Get some sleep, ah?" he said, turning away. Ottavar's eyelids drooped again, and he fell into sweet, painless oblivion.