Many Paths Read online

  A brief search did not yield up the flask he had sought. Perhaps the kobalen had taken it. Too weary and numb to be angry, he turned to leave without it.

  On the way out his glance fell on a whetstone fallen on the floor. He caught it up and shoved it inside his bundle of clothes, then bethought him of his other tools. Kobalen might have taken them, but if not he wanted them. They were the tokens of his craft, part of who he was.

  He found his tongs hanging on their hook, unnoticed by the raiders. His hammers had been plundered, but one had fallen to the floor. He picked it up, and found a file lying near it. He rolled them all up in his bundle of clothing.

  There were more, many more tools of value and use, but it would be folly to burden himself with all of them. These were enough. He turned away from forge and home, stepping into the public circle for the last time.

  He gazed around at Highglen. It, too, was dead, he realized. Lost beyond recovery this time. Half the houses were now ablaze.

  “Help me! Please, help!”

  He followed the cry to a house that was starting to burn. Velashi, the weaver, was struggling to pull something out through the front door. Ghaláran hastened to her, and saw that it was her loom.

  Velashi glanced up at him, wild-eyed. “Help me turn it! It will come through at an angle.”

  “You cannot save it, Velashi. How will you carry it away?”

  She peered at him, a heartbroken frown on her face, then looked back at the loom. Flames were starting to lick at the roof of her house from the neighboring home. Bleak realization filled her face, then she shoved the loom backward and stepped past it into the house.

  “What are you doing?” Ghaláran called after her. “Come away!”

  She paid him no heed, but caught up a bulging satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She stood over a jumble of yarn and thread on the floor—all the bright colors of her craft, picked over by the kobalen—and bent to retrieve three items: a skein of pale green wool and two spools of metal thread, silver and gold.

  The green was the color of Clan Greenglen, along with the valuable silver thread which Ghaláran knew was hard to make. The gold, also valuable, a rarity.

  Tokens of her craft. Seeds from which to start anew.

  She shoved them into her satchel and stepped over the rest, catching down a cloak from a peg beside the door as she joined Ghaláran on the threshold. Her face was set in grim determination.

  “To Brightwater Stream, and follow it to the river?”

  Ghaláran shook his head. “The kobalen will be downstream. We must go north or south.”

  “North, then. The Midrange Trail will take us to the Silverwash, if we find no way before then.”

  Ghaláran agreed, glad to be spared the decision. He found it difficult to care about anything at present. It was a small comfort not to be alone, but only that. Against the losses, Velashi’s presence paled. He even caught himself resenting that she, and not Milari, had survived.

  He pushed aside that thought, consciously rejecting it. Spirits alone knew what fate was planned for each fleshbound soul. Each had its own path to walk, and it was not for him to bemoan what had befallen.

  The woods were thick in choking smoke now. He breathed shallowly, inhaling as little as he could, though that little still made him cough. He and Velashi hastened northward and soon reached Brightwater Stream.

  Here the smoke was less thick, and spring flowers were blooming, untrampled by the heavy feet of kobalen. The peacefulness of it was strange. It seemed to Ghaláran that nothing so fair should exist after all this day’s horror.

  He made Velashi stay hidden among the trees while he stood with eyes closed and searched up and down the stream for kobalen, expanding his awareness to seek their khi. He found it, well downstream and moving very little; they must have stopped to sort their spoils. For the present at least they were not a danger.

  He beckoned to Velashi and they both crouched to drink their fill. The water was cold and clear. Ghaláran splashed some onto his face and, gingerly, on his head wound, where it stung.

  Velashi watched him, frowning in concern. “Shall I bind that for you?”

  “Not here. It is not safe to stay.”

  He rose and crossed the stream on the stepping stones he had helped to place, years ago. Velashi reached into her satchel.

  “Wait.” She took out a waterskin, holding it in the stream to fill it.

  Ghaláran waited, impressed that she had managed to save the skin, thinking of all the things they might need and did not have. His bow and arrows, taken by the kobalen, most like. Rope, a snare, anything with which to hunt, beyond the knives he carried.

  They might be hungry for a day or two, until they reached the river and made their way to a town or village. Silverglen was the nearest, but the kobalen were between it and them.

  He was too weary to make plans. For now all he wanted was to put distance between himself and the kobalen, and then rest the night.

  Velashi capped the waterskin and put it back in her satchel, then rose and crossed the stream. “Did—did any others come back from the fighting?”

  Ghaláran’s throat tightened. “Not that I know. Any left in the village?”

  Velashi shook her head. “Most fled when the kobalen broke through. They are far ahead of us, by now.”

  Ahead of the kobalen, too. Frowning, Ghaláran reached his thoughts toward Highglen, seeking for a trace of khi from anyone who might remain, something he should have done earlier.

  The chaos of the fire made it difficult to sense anything else, but if there had been a spark of ælven khi left in the village he was sure he would have felt it. He turned away, set his jaw grimly against all forms of pain, and strode north through the forest.

  The sun set, sending shadows slanting downslope under the trees. They walked on until dusk was fallen, robbing the world of its colors. They might yet have continued, for darkness did not trouble them as it did the kobalen, but Ghaláran was exhausted. He stopped beside an ancient oak and laid down his burdens, then sank to the ground.

  Velashi joined him, offering water in a metal cup she had brought. With gentle hands she cleansed his wound and bound it with a cloth about his brow. Its dull ache sharpened while she touched it, then subsided again. He wished for some wine, but contented himself with the water.

  He turned the cup in his hands, admiring the twining vines that decorated it. Jhirinan’s work.

  “What other treasures have you in that satchel?”

  Velashi glanced at the bad. “Not many. Needle and thread, and my shears. Some food. A comb and a change of clothes.”

  She had taken time to prepare for flight, probably when the defenders had gone to take their stand. She was wearing a sturdy tunic and legs, stout boots, and the cloak clasped at her throat.

  “Change of clothes.” He nodded. “I brought that as well. Next stream we come to I will wash.”

  She nodded, watching him in concern. “Shall I comb out your hair for you and braid it fresh?”

  “No doubt it needs it.”

  She smiled. “Well, you do look a little frightening.”

  He managed a faint smile in return. Velashi moved to sit behind him and began to unbind the matted mess of his hunter’s braid.

  He closed his eyes, fighting tears at the memory of Milari combing his hair. She would never do so again.

  Suddenly he could no longer bear Velashi’s touch. He caught her hand and took the comb from it.

  “Let me.” His voice was choked.

  “Did I hurt you? Forgive me.”

  “No.”

  He could not trust his voice enough to explain, so he dragged the comb through his hair, pulling out snarls, some matted with blood. He took care not to disturb the bandage, but still his scalp ached by the time he had bound up his hair again in a simple braid. He cleaned the comb and handed it back to Velashi, thanking her.

  “You are welcome. Have some bread.”

  He looked at the piece sh
e offered, and shook his head, his stomach rebelling at the thought. “I am not hungry.”

  She put the bread away again, her lips pressed together. Regretting having hurt her feelings, he sought to make amends.

  “I am sorry we could not save your loom.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, hunching a shoulder. “You were right, it was foolish of me. No matter, I can build another.”

  Almost anything could be rebuilt. A life lost, though, was gone forever. Turning away from the bleak loneliness that stretched before him, he lay down and closed his eyes to rest.

  Before dawn they set out again, to distance themselves from Highglen before the kobalen would be stirring. From what had been Highglen, Ghaláran reminded himself. The village was no more.

  Acrid smoke hung in the woods. When they topped a ridge they looked back and saw the whole mountainside aflame. Ghaláran grieved for the forest, for all that would be lost. It would take decades for the land to recover. Kobalen and ælven alike lost by this fire.

  A frown settled on his brow as they continued northward. Kobalen were not to be pitied; they were the cause of this. Had the Ælven Creed not forbidden vengeance, his life would have a purpose.

  As it was, he should not burden his soul, but it was hard to turn away. He would be glad to slay kobalen at need. He even hoped it would arise.

  The Creed was all he had now. He must let it guide him. The ancient code forbade doing harm for no reason. One must not kill save to feed oneself, in which case a benison of thanks must be given.

  The kobalen had posed a problem, for the Creed was made before their existence was known. The Ælven Council had decided that the slaying of kobalen in defense of ælven lives and settlements was permissible. Atonement for the deaths of kobalen so killed was not required, though some sought to make it anyway.

  Ghaláran felt no need to atone. He only wished he had slain more.

  His longknife had been no match for the overwhelming numbers that had come at him. Had it been longer, he might have taken one or two more.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He glanced at Velashi. “I was thinking of the Creed.”

  “You looked angry.”

  “I am angry. Are you not?”

  “Well . . . yes, but it will be better soon. We will find our friends, and Milari will be there—”

  “Milari is dead.”

  How cold it sounded on his tongue. Too real, spoken aloud.

  Velashi stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well and meet her stricken gaze. He felt his throat tightening again.

  “She did not escape.”

  “Oh.” Her voice was a whisper. “I am so sorry.”

  Unable to bear her pity, he turned and strode northward again. His ankle was better after a night’s rest; it scarcely troubled him now. He brushed aside the tear that threatened and looked to the north.

  They were not far from Midrange Valley—one more ridge to cross. Midrange Peak was visible from Highglen, and looked even more impressive now, still capped in deep snow despite the warming of spring.

  The slumbering volcano was thought to have birthed most of the mountains in this part of the range. Its spawn was rich in silver and other metals. Ghaláran had spent many a season exploring the high valleys, seeking out the purest veins of ore for his knife metal. He and Jhirinan had often gone together—

  He closed his eyes briefly at that further loss remembered, fighting back the woe that threatened to overcome him. For Jhirinan’s sake, for the sake of all who were lost, he must and would go on. That he yet breathed spoke to a reason for his survival. Finding it would be his path.

  They marched on, not talking, saving their breath for climbing. Midrange Valley was rich with springs that fed the Silverwash, which rose high on Midrange Peak. He looked no farther forward than to the comfort of bathing and donning clean clothes.

  Upon topping the ridge, they paused to gaze down on the valley. The lower slopes glowed green with spring’s verdure, and to the north the bright, shining thread of the Silverwash danced its way down to disappear between high bluffs at the feet of the mountains, and reappear on its way south. It descended to the edge of the plains before running south toward Glenhallow and then east to the sea.

  Ghaláran felt no awe at the splendor of the view. He felt numb, which was better than pain.

  “Have some water.” Velashi filled her cup and handed it to him.

  “How much is left?”

  She shook the skin. “Enough to get us to the river.”

  He drank, looking at the river which they would reach by evening, trying to force his dull brain to think beyond that. They could follow the Silverwash south to Silverglen, or strike north into Alpinon and seek asylum in with the Stonereach Clan in Highstone, roughly the same distance. South was preferable, remaining in their own realm and among their own clan. Those who had escaped the wreck of Highglen would likely be in Silverglen by now. Yet if he and Velashi turned south, the kobalen might find them.

  “These stonefruits are still quite good.”

  He glanced at Velashi, who proffered a handful of dried fruit. He shook his head.

  “You must eat.”

  “Not now.”

  Not until the knot in his gut loosened. When that might be he could not yet imagine.

  When they were rested they began the descent into Midrange Valley, passing from the craggy rocks of the ridge into a grove of firespear trees. The tall, slender white trees were just leafed out in spring green, tiny round leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.

  Ghaláran gazed at them, feeling a slight comfort in their presence. Perhaps firespear would grow where Highglen had stood. The trees were so named because they favored slopes where fire had passed. Thinking of them covering the mountain above Highglen, all golden in the autumn, cheered him a little. In a few decades it would be beautiful.

  He and Velashi continued down the south side of the valley, working their way toward the river. The firespear gave way to evergreens and then a mixed forest of pines and oak. Following a rocky wash, they made good progress and were nearing the river as the sun approached the mountains.

  A trio of deer ran toward them, shying aside as they saw the two ælven. Ghaláran had two thoughts at once: he wished for his bow, and he wondered what hunted the deer. Frowning, he reached out a hand to draw Velashi into the shelter of a boulder.

  A dart whistled between them, causing Velashi to start. Ghaláran caught her wrist and pulled her behind the rock.

  “Kobalen!” he hissed, drawing his longknife.

  Velashi’s eyes widened in fear. He shoved his belongings into her arms and gestured for her to stay behind the rock. Leaning against it, he stretched his senses down the wash, toward the danger.

  A small band, no more than five. Hunting party. Would they turn to follow the deer, or seek to make spoils of the ælven’s meager possessions? He had no doubt he and Velashi had been seen.

  He heard muttering in coarse voices, then the sound of footfalls pursuing the deer. Not enough footfalls, though. Two, perhaps.

  Frowning in concentration, he focused on khi, seeking to locate each of the remaining kobalen exactly. They were close together, a pace or two apart, advancing slowly up the wash. By their movement he saw they meant to encircle the rock that was his shelter.

  That must not be permitted. Ghaláran wished briefly for his shield, then changed his mind. With the longknife, he must be free to move quickly, and to see what all of his opponents were doing, if he was to take all three kobalen.

  And he must move now. He drew his knife, then left the rock’s shelter at a run, fixing on the nearest kobalen.

  Too surprised to fling darts, the kobalen faltered, giving Ghaláran the chance to strike first as he closed the short distance between them. His chosen target brought up a spear, but too slowly. Ghaláran knocked it aside with his free arm and pierced the creature’s heart.

  Wresting the spear free even as its holder fell, he used it to block the blow
s of the other two spears. No clubs—this was a hunt, not a raid.

  Ghaláran aimed a knife stroke at the next kobalen’s neck. It jumped back, the knife’s blade just brushing it, though blood lit the creature’s jaw.

  Ghaláran moved sideways, trying to come between the third kobalen and the rock where Velashi sheltered. The second kobalen prevented him, swinging its spear like a club in a way that sparked terror in him.

  He ducked, putting up his captured spear to deflect the other weapon. The shaft shuddered in his hand beneath the blow and he nearly dropped it. The third kobalen slipped past him.

  Grimacing, he focused on disabling his opponent quickly. He dodged another spear thrust, leaping sideways. His knife’s reach was outmatched by the kobalen’s spear so he dropped it and used both hands to wield his own spear.

  The kobalen thrust again. Ghaláran knocked the spear upwards and continued forward, arcing his spear’s point down toward the kobalen’s chest. It struck and the kobalen howled.

  Ghaláran leapt forward, using his weight to shove as hard as he could. The kobalen toppled backward, the spear lodged in its chest. Ghaláran darted back to fetch up his knife, and swiftly cut the creature’s throat.

  Another cry rose from uphill and he turned. Too late? He caught up the fallen spear and charged toward the boulder.

  Two figures on the ground. Velashi looked up at him, wild-eyed, a longknife in her hands as she crouched over the dead kobalen.

  Ghaláran took a step back, sighing with relief. Saw his things strewn beside her satchel, the thong that had bound the weapons hastily pulled loose. It was Jhirinan’s knife she held.

  “Well done.” He drew deep breaths, heart still pounding. “We must not tarry. The other two will be back, and they will not be pleased.”

  Velashi lowered the knife and stood up, then seemed about to topple. She leaned a bloodied hand against the rock. “Th-there are more?”

  “We will be gone before they get here. Hold onto that.” He gestured to the knife as he collected the club and the unfinished blade. “You used it well.”