The Land You Never Leave Page 9

  Arguably, there was no big rush. It would take many days to cross Badlander territory and reach the Badlands themselves. However, Luby would not be happy until she’d ended this insanity and the army was safely back in Calnia. The Ocean of Grass looked flat, but it was scored by valleys that could easily hold an ambushing army. Every moment in Badlander territory was a moment that something might go disastrously and empire-endingly wrong.

  So she melted past the empress’s guards, slipped round to the back of Ayanna’s expansive deer-hide tent and squeezed under its leather side.

  The interior was lit only by a glowing fire which wafted the aroma of some exotic wood. There was no buffalo dung on the empress’s fire.

  Luby waited while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Soft snores came from the large bed in the centre of the tent. The Swan Prince Calnian, in a cot next to the bed, snuffled in his sleep.

  Ayanna and Chippaminka were on the bed, naked, limbs entwined, Chippaminka’s cheek resting against Ayanna’s milk-swollen breast.

  Luby paused. She’d expected the empress to be alone. Now another opportunity had presented itself; a better one. Her obsidian moon blades hung from her belt, freshly sharpened. Surely Chippaminka’s death would break her spell?

  She padded towards the bed. Chippaminka’s neck was exposed. It would be the work of moments. She raised a moon blade.

  Chippaminka’s eyes flashed open. Luby gasped.

  “I think you’d better go,” said the warlock in a horrible whisper.

  Horror filled Luby’s mind, as suddenly and shockingly as fire bursting in a pool of pitch lit by a lobbed torch.

  She didn’t think. She ran. She didn’t stop until she was back in her tent, wrapped in her poncho, shivering, her mind a turmoil of terror.

  Chapter 11

  Buffalo Soldiers

  “I’ve decided that the collective noun for buffalo,” said Paloma Pronghorn the following morning as they passed yet another huge herd of the animals, “is a fuckload.”

  “So what’s the collective noun for crowd pigeons?” Sassa Lipchewer looked up at the great flock towing them along.

  “A fuckload of fuckloads?”

  “Doesn’t really work.”

  “No.” Paloma scratched her head. “What’s bigger than a fuck?”

  “A cuntload doesn’t sound right.”

  “No.”

  “How about we scale buffalos back to a shitload, and make crowd pigeons a fuckload?”

  “That will have to do for now, I suppose … Hey, look, they’re at it again.”

  At the back of the deck, Freydis the Annoying and Ottar the Moaner were sitting cross-legged in front of the squatch. Ottar was chattering away incomprehensibly at the monster, waving his arms. The squatch was looking back at him, a mildly interested expression on its fleshy lipped, small-eyed face.

  “You sure they’re all right?” asked Paloma. “The squatch could punch them into a pulp before even I could rescue them.”

  Sassa shrugged. “I’m sure they’re fine. Ottar’s never wrong and Freydis has more sense than a longhouse full of jarls.”

  “A what full of what?”

  “She’s very sensible. And besides, you die—”

  “When you die, yes you explained that yesterday and I cannot refute it. You certainly do die when you die … Talking about cutting things short, you see that crest on the squatch’s head?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’d look good with your hair like that, but longer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I can picture it perfectly: a long crest of hair running from nape to forehead.”

  “Ha ha!”

  “No, seriously, let me look at you.” Paloma took Sassa’s chin in one hand and tilted her head from side to side. “Yup, really, I’m not kidding. You want to be an archer warrior, but that yellow hair is too frivolous. Shave the sides, leave a long bit down the middle, stiffen it with fat and you’ll look a lot more formidable than Sitsi Kestrel ever will, even if you’ll never be as good with the bow.”

  “Formidable and minging.”

  “No. It’ll be sexy. Your face is feminine enough to carry it off. You’ll look great—a woman with a yellow crest of hair in a land of black-haired people. I’ll want to shag you. I wish I could cut my own hair like that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “If I shaved off my hair and left a big crest, Sofi Tornado would rip the crest off and make me eat it. She’s no fan of extreme hairstyles and she comes down pretty hard on breaches in discipline. Will your husband punish you if you mess with your hair? Is that why you’re scared of doing it?”

  “Have you got a knife?”

  “You want me to do it now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “You get a haircut when you get a haircut, that’s what I’ve always said.” Paloma whisked a knife from her belt.

  “Krist died so that our sins could be forgiven, and so all who believe in him can go to his father’s haven when they die,” Gunnhild Kristlover explained to Sitsi Kestrel while they watched Paloma chopping off Sassa’s hair on the other side of the Plains Strider.

  “Like a spoilt child promising access to his father’s pyramid palace,” Sitsi replied.

  “A spoilt child would not die for others.”

  Sitsi enjoyed talking to the older woman. She was by far the richest source for information about the Mushroom Men, even if some of it didn’t entirely add up. And her god! What a boring one. Generally, it was not done to take the piss out of another tribe’s deities, but Krist sounded so pompous and dreary that Sitsi couldn’t help it.

  “But you said before that Krist didn’t die?”

  “He died then came back.”

  “Which isn’t dying.”

  “He went through the process of death.”

  “Which isn’t quite so impressive if you know you’re going to be on your feet a couple of days later.”

  “He didn’t know that.”

  “I suppose that’s better … And he forgives all sins?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you believe in him and his dad, you go to this wonderful haven place when you die?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t if you don’t believe in him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So it’s a sin to not believe in him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So surely he forgives that sin, and everyone gets into haven?”

  “Some sins cannot be forgiven.”

  “I bet this fellow’s committed most of those.” Sitsi nodded at Chapa Wangwa. The Badlander was walking towards them across the deck, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Gunnhild Kristlover, Sitsi Kestrel,” he smiled. “I’m glad you are together, as it is you two I was hoping to find. Of all your fellows I think you will appreciate the spectacle we are about to see more than the others.” He bent his knees and spread his arms to allow for the slowing of the Plains Strider. “In a moment we will come to a stop at Wangwa Ridge. It is not named after me, as you may be thinking, and I am not named after it. No, both the ridge and I are named after the Badlander god Wangwa.”

  “You mean the Badlander devil Wangwa,” said Sitsi, “alternatively known as the Chief of Evil and the Big Shit.” She wasn’t joking. This was actually true.

  “One man’s evil is another man’s fun,” Chapa Wangwa replied.

  “Never rejoice at evil; let good give you pleasure.” Gunnhild waggled a finger.

  “Is it good to strip the flesh from a man’s arms? Is it good to see how many millipedes you can force into a woman’s stomach before she dies? These are things that give me pleasure, so they must be good, no?”

  “The truly evil believe their actions are good,” said Sitsi. She’d made up the aphorism while Chapa Wangwa was talking, but reckoned it was as good as any of Gunnhild’s.

  “You see!” said the Badlander. “There will never be a dull moment when we three are together. Although
you will both die soon, and horribly, it makes me happy to know that your last few days will be brightened by my acquaintance.”

  The Plains Strider slowed and bumped down to a stop. “Come with me, come now and I will show you a marvel.” He walked away, beckoning.

  Sitsi looked at Gunnhild and shrugged. They both followed, and he led them from the catch wagon, down a hill and along the eastern edge of a marsh. The marsh was a circle of brown reeds in the green prairie, busy with a variety of birds, most of which were long-legged and long-billed. On the western edge of the marsh, perhaps two hundred paces away, the land rose sharply in a crescent-shaped grassy bluff some fifty paces high. It was the most dramatic feature in the gentle plains that Sitsi had seen since the cliffs by the Water Mother over three hundred miles to the east.

  “Now stand here,” said Chapa Wangwa, “and shortly you will see something very amazing.”

  “Something that you consider amazing,” said Sitsi.

  “Yes!”

  Sitsi looked at Gunnhild and Gunnhild looked at Sitsi. Gunnhild looked about as uneasy as Sitsi felt.

  Tansy Burna whooped and dug her heels all the harder into the flanks of her dagger-tooth cat. The beast roared. The cluster of buffalo around her pressed forward in a new burst of speed, bellowing and butting aside their herd mates in their panic to escape the predator. Her cat lengthened its stride and kept pace.

  Tansy loved a buffalo drive. She liked the teamwork, the speed and the killing, but what she actually loved was getting one over on the buffalo. She hated buffalo. For a long while she’d been sucked in like everybody else. Oh the buffalo is so noble, people said. Look at its sad eyes, so ancient so wise, they bleated. Tansy knew different. Buffalo were patronising bastards who thought themselves superior to every other creature for the same reasons that humans thought buffalo were so amazing. They looked good and they were big. But that was all they had. They had broad heads and stout horns and curly brown hair and they thought that made them special, but they were herbivores, for the love of Spider Woman. They were no better than rabbits.

  Yet everyone else thought buffalo were the bee’s bollocks. These drives were a useful reminder for the buffalo that they were chicken-hearted vegetarians, so scared of dagger-tooth cats and a few howling humans that they’d run to their deaths over a cliff rather than square up to them, even if they did have broad heads, stout horns and curly brown hair.

  Not that Wangwa Ridge could be called a cliff. It wasn’t even a hill. It was, as the name implied, no more than a steepish ridge. Still, it was high and steep enough.

  Hooves thundered around her. Buffalo snorted and screamed. Her cat surged smoothly through their ranks like a sleek orange canoe through hairy rapids.

  Ahead, to the west and east, one rider after another slowed their cats to pull back, out of the stampede. They were close to Wangwa Ridge. It was not always the simplest manoeuvre to extricate oneself from the running herd, so you had to pull out good and early to avoid going over the edge. Riding on was pointless anyway, since buffalo this frenzied would carry on over the ridge perfectly well on their own.

  Tansy rode on, farther than she was meant to, almost breathless with excitement at her own bravery. All other cats had fallen back. She’d never been last woman riding before. One of her squad was standing on her cat, waving at her to stop. Tansy whooped with glee, leant further forward and clamped her legs all the more tightly on her sinuously sprinting cat.

  There was a tornado-smashed tree a couple of hundred paces from the top of the ridge that riders called the point of no return. If you rode your cat past that tree during a stampede over Wangwa Ridge, they said, you’d have no chance of pulling out and your fate would be the same as the buffalos’.

  The broken tree rushed closer and closer. Tansy Burna sat up, ready to slow her cat.

  But then she thought fuck it, no. She pivoted forward at the hips, squeezed her legs, pressed her groin into her mount, dug her fingers into its coat and bit the fur on the back of its neck. She’d overheard one of the weird new captives say something that had stuck with her and she meant to give it a go. What were the exact words again? Oh yes, that was it—

  You die when you die.

  The Badlanders gathered around Sitsi Kestrel, Gunnhild Kristlover and Chapa Wangwa, all looking expectantly westward across the marsh at the ridge. Chapa Wangwa told the other Badlanders that anyone who spoiled the surprise by mentioning what was about to happen would be lowered upside down into boiling buffalo oil.

  The rest of the Wootah, interested as ever to see what was going on, walked up along with Chogolisa Earthquake, Paloma Pronghorn and a few other captives. There was no sign of Yoki Choppa, Morningstar or Sofi Tornado. No surprise about Morningstar and Yoki Choppa; they’d never exactly been the mingling, let’s-follow-the-crowd types, but Sitsi was not at all happy with Sofi’s self-imposed solitude. The women of the Owsla were used to being led, and they needed their leader all the more in this odd situation. She also suspected that a bit of strategic thinking and ordering people about would shake Sofi Tornado from her funk. The Owsla captain had spent the entire day on her own again, talking to no one. Sitsi couldn’t think of a way to be free of the beeba spiders, but surely Sofi would be able to? The Tornado had never let them down before.

  Sitsi had guessed what was coming over the ridge. The Calnians themselves were not buffalo drivers. They abhorred the practice and had banned it in their empire. There was nothing wrong with killing a buffalo if you were going to use it, but stampedes killed many, many more than could be used by all but the largest cities, so almost all the dead buffalo were left to rot.

  Innowak considered a buffalo drive to be an abomination and so did Sitsi.

  Erik the Angry stood with Finnbogi the Boggy, Chogolisa Earthquake, Paloma Pronghorn, the two children and the racoons. All of them were looking across the marsh at the top of the ridge.

  “What’s this about then?” Finnobgi asked.

  “I have no idea,” Chogolisa shook her head.

  “I think I know,” said Paloma, “but our happy friend Wangwa over there has promised that anyone spilling the secret will be lowered upside down into boiling buffalo oil. On balance, I don’t think it’s worth telling you. Just watch.”

  “Are we going to like it?” Finnbogi asked

  “I shouldn’t think so. It might give you nightmares, but you should probably see it. It’ll help you understand the Badlanders. Maybe the children shouldn’t see it, though.”

  “We should,” said Freydis.

  All was quiet. Nobody spoke. They jumped as a multitude of birds took off from the marsh and flapped away. A moment later Erik felt a rumbling, followed by a giant wave of terror washing towards them. He staggered.

  Finnbogi put an hand on his arm. “Are you okay, Erik? Do you want to … whoaaah what was that!?” Finnbogi collapsed but Erik caught him.

  “Finn! Finn!”

  “Yes, wow. I lost my legs. Sorry.”

  “Picture Thyri Treelegs’ tits,” Erik whispered.

  “What?”

  “Picture Thyri’s tits. Just try it.”

  Whenever Erik was overwhelmed by thoughts that didn’t belong to him, he pictured the breasts of a woman whom he considered attractive. Just now, he’d told himself to imagine Morningstar’s boobs, but instead he’d found himself thinking about Chogolisa Earthquake’s. His choice had surprised him enough to clear the plight of the buffalo from his mind.

  “Okay …” Finnbogi’s face took on a look of concentration. “And … done it. Thanks. I felt terrified. What the Hel was it?”

  “That, I suspect, was an old family trait that you seem to have inherited.”

  Buffalo appeared at the top of the ridge. Half a heartbeat later they were over it. Most lost their footing immediately and cartwheeled. Some managed to run part of the way down, but their fellows whacked into them from behind and they tumbled, too. The hefty herbivores hit the ground at the base of the ridge with crunches and cracks
and screams. More and more appeared at the top, more and more cascaded down into the pile of dead and dying buffalo below.

  Erik shook his head. He’d blocked the brunt of the buffalos’ anguish, but he could still feel their horror and pain. He looked at Finnbogi. The boy seemed fine. If he did share Erik’s ability to communicate with animals, it would make sense that he wasn’t overly affected. It had been mild at first with Erik.

  A human scream cut through the buffalo bellows. A figure on a dagger-tooth cat appeared at the top of the bluff. The cat leapt, rider gripping onto it, out over the tumbling buffalo.

  “But Scraylings live at one with the land.” Gunnhild’s mouth hung open. “They respect nature …”

  “Scraylings?” asked Sitsi Kestrel.

  “You lot.”

  “Calnians?”

  “Calnians, Badlanders, Lakchans, Goachica.”

  “But not the Wootah?”

  “Scraylings are what we call everyone who’s originally from this land; everyone but ourselves.”

  “What a silly thing to do. You might as well put snails, chipmunks and eagles in the same group of animals.”

  “But we came across Olaf’s Salt Sea. The rest of you didn’t.”

  “So?”

  “We look different.”

  “There are black squirrels and blond squirrels. Do we group the former with buffalo and the latter with lions?” Sitsi was quite annoyed that the Wootah thought she was the same as a Badlander. “And another thing—”

  “You two are fascinating as always,” interrupted Chapa Wangwa, “but please can you save your chat for later and enjoy the spectacle?”

  More and more buffalo hurtled over the ridge to their doom. If this was one of the larger herds, it was going to go on for a while, thought Sitsi.