Work and Ward

Oswa lived.

Her breath was fast and shallow, but even. Her pulse was quick, and her skin pale. She drifted in and out of sleep, but did not deepen into death.

I Hallowed the carcasses. Then, with what little strength I had left, I sat beside Oswa, held her hand and Breathed with her. Breath drew down into me, filling my lungs and belly, and flowed into her. The Breath that came back was hot and slow and sharp, like a cloud of spikes. I released it into the air, then repeated the cycle.

In the koryos, we used this method to restore a man’s strength after a day of hard labor. It was the closest I could think of to true healing. Yet when I checked the Web, the Face of the Weaver remained closed to me.

As I Breathed, the rest of the ghortos went to work. The women and girls shuttered the windows, then brought over the lanterns and rush-lights. Boys took up spears to guard the doors. Men attacked the carcasses.

A single man could butcher a khonkonghos spawn by himself. He could plunge his knife into the soft spots between the chitin plates, then pry the plates free. Once the flesh was stripped bare, it was simple enough to open the carcass and pull out the organs. Simpler still to harvest the flesh.

The men cleaned the spawn first. The women and children scraped the plates clean of flesh, then hung up the meat over the fire to smoke. The men paused for a beaker of ale and to sharpen dulled blades. Then they turned their attention to the mother.

She was huge, larger than the largest cow I had ever seen in my life. Dressing her was long, hard and heavy work. The men tried to work their knives into the gaps between the plates but gained little purchase. Keitan found my axe, and I let him borrow it. The spike proved more useful in digging into the flesh. Still, it took the strength of three men, all of them holding on to the handle, to lever the plate away.

Inspired by the axe, other men used spearheads. Carefully, with lanterns flickering around them, they stabbed the spears into soft flesh. Then they cut and pulled, pulled and cut.

Augus and Guregnos had the honor of disarming the mother. With small, delicate cuts, they removed the claws from her front legs. Even so, it took as much strength as stripping the plate from the carcass.

When the last of the plates were removed, Omos called a halt. The men were exhausted, and exhausted men made deadly mistakes. They cleaned their tools and collapsed on the benches in their bloody and stinking clothes.

I continued to Breathe into Oswa.

When the rooster screamed, everyone got up and went back to work.

Omos’ family saw to the ward. The khonkongha had shattered the ward-lantern. They scattered the shards across the fields, then built a new ward-lantern with the spare ward-stone.

The fence had been broken. Kiar’s kinsmen turned their hands to repairing it. Kiar herself and her sister stacked fresh wood and tinder and kindling on the heath. Then she carried a live coal from the hallowed hearth-fire, and brought it outside to rekindle the bonfire.

Keitan’s kin drew fresh water from the river. Then they turned their knives on the mother khonkonghos. Those with hands to spare joined them.

The women cooked gruel with smoked khonkonghos. The children brought out buckets of milk. These they served with bowls and beakers, to those seated around the fire, and those still at work.

The meat was sweet and buttery, enriched with a light smoky flavor and generous amounts of fish sauce. The plain gruel cleansed the tongue and readied the mouth for the next spoonful. Any other time and I would have savored the meal. Today, I was too busy keeping my eyes open and wading through the fog in my head.

We tried to feed Oswa. She swallowed a little gruel. Then she groaned and shook her head and swallowed no more.

We were fortunate. Khonkongha lived in the forests and near water. Fierce and bloodthirsty, they hunted men that wandered into their lands. Kweinos had made this pack larger and fiercer still, but not by much.

The storm must have driven the pack out of the woods. It had also put out the need-fire. The ward-stones were strong enough to whip the khonkongha into a fury, not enough to keep them away.

It was well that khonkongha were not as bright as men. Or, at least, this pack was in too much pain to think deeply. Had they destroyed all the ward-stones, attacked from every door and window at once, our losses would have been much higher.

As things stood, Oswa was the only serious casualty. A few men had cuts and scrapes, nothing that could not be treated with herbs, honey, stitches and bandages, or simply left to time. The women, the elders and the children were all untouched.

The elders and the heads of the three families gathered around the hearth. Over the morning meal, they spoke of the work to come.

“I will take Oswa to Verdwer,” Keitan said.

“I will go with her,” Arla said.

“Very well,” Omos said. “Yet the Hands will demand much silver to treat such a terrible wound. You must take the harvested khonkongha to the market.”

“My boat is small, and we need to move swiftly.”

“Augus and Guregnos have a boat too,” I said. “Can they be spared?”

Omos glanced at the quarter-worked carcass.

“The khonkonghos isn’t going anywhere. I can take over from them,” Omos decided.

Omos called the boys over and told them what needed to be done. Drenched in stinking green ichor, they nonetheless agreed at once.

“We’ll need to make multiple trips,” Augus said. “The fishing boat is too small to haul the entire harvest.”

“Start with the claws and chitin of the mother khonkonghos,” I advised. “Traders and crafters will go to war to buy the best pieces.”

“Innkeepers and the royal ghortos will want the smoked meat too,” Guregnos said.

“Claws and chitin first,” Keitan decided. “We sell the meat after we take what we will use.”

“I will go with you,” I said. “I will continue Breathwork with Oswa, and you will need help watching and carrying the goods.”

Thus resolved, we set out as soon as we finished eating.

There was no time for a bath. We took off our ichor-crusted clothes for the women to wash. Then we rubbed ourselves down in ashes and rushes, scraped off the dirt, and put on fresh clothes.

The elders stuffed the claws and chitin into sacks and barrels. We loaded the fishing boat with as much weight as it could bear. When the boys climbed aboard, the boat threatened to capsize. And still there were two large sacks left.

Omos gestured at them.

“Taran, these are yours,” he said.

They were stuffed with the claws and plates of the mother khonkonghos.

“I can’t accept them,” I said.

“You saved us all. You slew half of the spawn, and the mother. This is the least we can give you. Think of it as our ghostis-gift.”

Spoken like that, I could not turn him down.

Each sack weighed as much as a man. I hefted one each over my shoulder and set them down in the ferry. The boat rocked up and down. After us humans climbed aboard, the boat sank so low the river licked the gunwales. Keitan thought it unsafe to carry so much as a feather more.

By the time we set out, the sun had vaulted over the Sky-Pillar. Keitan poled his boat along, his sons in his wake. Oswa lay on a thwart. Arla and I sat beside her. With the sacks, there was barely enough room for us.

Still holding Oswa’s hand, an iron weariness came over me. I gaped wide and yawned.

Keitan startled.

He looked back at me, one hand on his pole, the other at his belt. I yawned again, and he relaxed.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“But—”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Sleep. You will need your wits about you in the city.”

A third time I yawned. Now I folded into myself and closed my eyes.

“Alright. Wake me when we get there, or when…”

I didn’t recall saying anything else.