David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“That is doubtful,” the Tharrin said. “Maggie killed several of them, so they will respect her for that. And now she has reinforcements, while the hosts of the Inhuman are scattered in their hunting packs. No, I think it more likely that they will band in larger numbers-then try to hunt her down. That should give us time to escape.”

“How can we manage to escape them undetected?”

“Our best hope is to travel quickly, over water,” the Tharrin said. “The scouts have keen noses, but they are blind in the daytime. We can flee at dawn, but we cannot leave our scent on any road leaving town. With luck, they will search the buildings here in town for a couple of days before they realize that we are gone. I think we should leave in the morning, on the first ship that sails with the tide.”

Another feminine voice broke in, a young woman, “Gallen, the beds are made up.…”

Zell’a Cree inched away from the room, taking immeasurable care not to make a sound. The rainwater trapped in the moss had wet his tunic so that he shivered with the cold, but when he was well away from his prey, he merely turned on his back and looked up at the stars and three small golden moons that whirled dreamily through the sky like juggler’s balls. He breathed the sharp air, and considered. A Tharrin, a Lord Protector with his woman-the newly proclaimed Lords of the Swarm-all heading toward Moree to do battle with the Inhuman.

What better converts could he desire?

Zell’a Cree thought furiously, considering his resources. Here on the frontier he had nearly run out of his copies of the Word. And Zell’a Cree wondered if even the vicious Tekkar would be a match for a Lord Protector. Here, Zell’a Cree lacked the necessary resources for a confrontation, both in technology and in manpower. But if the humans were heading toward Moree …

“When you reach the Harvester’s throne,” Zell’a Cree whispered, “you will bow before it.”

* * *

Once they reached the shadowed recesses of the warehouse, the Bock was dismayed at the sight of blood on Orick’s brow, so while Ceravanne and Gallen talked in the other room and Maggie and the giant made up beds nearby, the Bock lit an oil lamp and set it on some crates. Then it brought forth a pouch of blue dust from its belt, and began slowly rubbing it into Orick’s wounds, his sticklike finger probing tenderly.

“I see blood,” the Bock exclaimed, “but your hair is so dense, I cannot find a wound.”

Orick wasn’t sure if he should tell the creature that he healed quickly-ever since Maggie had fed him some capsules of nanodocs that would extend his life for a millennium or more.

“What is that?” Maggie asked of the powder, looking up from one of the bedrolls. “Healing Earth,” the Bock said. “It will ease the swelling, mend the cuts. It is a small wound. He should be well in a few hours.” Maggie came and pinched some of the dirt in her fingers. “Where does it come from?”

“Legend says that ages ago, the Immortal Lords brought it from the City of Life and put it in the land. Now it is there for the benefit of all people, to be used in curing all wounds.”

“Nanodocs,” Maggie whispered, looking at the powder. “Does it extend one’s life? Regenerate nerve tissue?”

“No,” the Bock said, leaning away from Orick. “Only the Immortals in the City of Life have that power. But it cures wounds, mends bones. If you travel, you will find the Healing Earth in many places, beside the springs where the ground is wet.”

Maggie nodded thoughtfully, then said, “I’m going to let Gallen know that the beds are ready.” She went back behind the crates, into the main room. The Bock stood perfectly motionless, slightly hunched, and there was a vacant look in its eyes.

“Are you all right?” Orick asked.

“Pardon me,” the Bock said. “I fell asleep. I’m exhausted. I must rest soon.” The Bock stepped back into a corner, raised his arms up toward a dim window, and stood with eyes squinted, unfocused.

The Bock began asking questions, in his slow way, about Orick’s habits, his interests in theology and the possibility of becoming a priest. And with each question, the Bock grew steadily more incredulous, more awake and more interested.

The Bock asked, “So you have been working with Gallen for three years, yet never has he paid you? If you receive no compensation, why do you stay with him?”

“Oh, Gallen does buy me an odd meal now and then, but there’s more in this world than money,” Orick said. “After all, the Bible says that it’s easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. I’d have to be a wretched creature, indeed, to base my relationship with someone on money.”

“So why do you work with him?” the Bock said, his brown eyes gazing steadily at Orick.

“He’s my friend.”

“So you remain with him for companionship?” the Bock said, as if it were an alien concept, vaguely understood. “Of course.”

“But what of your own kind? Why do you not seek out other bears for companionship?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Orick grumbled, not wanting to admit the painful truth. But he was an honest bear, so he continued. “On my world, bears don’t run together. Mostly the males eat too much, and they wouldn’t want to share food with me. The females love to have us during mating season, but they commence snarling soon afterward, and then, well, they just won’t have you around, and they let you know it.”

“Have you sought company with many females?” the Bock asked.

“Some,” Orick admitted. “There was one I met just before I came here. I had hopes for her.”

“You wanted to bond with her?”

Orick hesitated to admit to such a crazy notion. “Marriage is an honorable and holy state … or at least that’s what the Bible says.”

The Bock stopped, and in the dim lamplight he opened his mouth wide in surprise, as if he had just had a fantastic idea. “You are human, Orick!” the Bock said excitedly.

“I’m a bear!” Orick argued.

“Few of us are what we seem,” the Bock said. “Our flesh is our disguise, hiding our desires and notions. Many who seem human are mere shells, so why should it be improbable that a creature such as yourself, who inhabits the form of a bear, would be a human at heart? Your thoughts, your beliefs and needs, are all those that a human would understand and agree with. And if you are human at heart, then by our law I have the right to extend the invitation: you may live within our society and enjoy the blessings of human company.”

“Great,” Orick murmured. He’d had human companionship for his whole life. It didn’t seem a great privilege. “So what does that get me?”

“A great deal,” the Bock answered. “Few nonhumans may ever enter the City of Life and obtain the blessings granted there. You will find many nonhumans here in the port, but they cannot travel the roads beyond. Instead, they must leave with their ships, returning to exile in Babel.”

The Bock seemed so distressed by the plight of the nonhumans that Orick found himself sympathizing with them. He imagined how things must be in Babel, a seething madhouse of incompatible species, preying upon the weak and upon one another, a vast continent laid waste by perpetual warfare. Orick’s heart went out to such creatures, for he understood what it was to be outcast, to never belong.

“So,” Orick grumbled. “Gallen will be surprised when I tell him that I’m as human as he is.”

“Are you sure that he is human?” the Bock said.

“Why, what else would he be?” Orick asked.

“He could be many things,” the Bock said. “I have not yet determined whether he is human, and so I cannot grant him the privileges that come with humanity.”