The Precious Quest Page 2

  A bead of sweat trickled down the inside of my armour, cooling my skin and making me shiver. I stood and ignored the prickle in my legs from squatting so long. Across the field of dead, my warriors moved with torches, seeking the female fallen. The flickering of the flames created a false writhing among the still bodies. This trick of shadows and the rhythm of the warriors’ song of life would ward off the Griffain for a short time. I looked to the forest’s edge where I had last seen Nethaz. The giant was gone. A Griffain shrieked with impatience.

  “There is nothing more to be done here,” Dorn said.

  We turned to make our way back to camp. Hinfūs dogged my steps with ears down. I lightly kicked him away.

  Dorn clasped his hands behind his back and asked, “Why do you think Nethaz grieved the death of our enemies?”

  My voice, heavy with loss, revealed my thoughts. “Nethaz grieves the cycle.”

  “Without death, there is no life.” Dorn spoke the words that were as ancient as the great trees in the forest.

  Then, as if Nethaz’s tears had freed me, I spoke the unthinkable, “There will be no life from this battle,” I said. “There was no life from the last, nor the one before that.”

  “Laywren!” Dorn stopped walking. I hardened myself against his shock.

  “Life has been denied us,” I whispered harshly, and waited for the goddess to strike me down.

  Chapter 2: The District Hæsel Bush

  The wall of twisted wood surrounding the District grew in the dirt like a birch reflects on the shore of a still lake—twenty feet up and seven feet down. We knew we could not breach it with brute strength, for we had tried and failed. But the Horde had more than just force. We had patience and enough supplies to camp outside the wall for two weeks. I placed sentinel pacers in the forest, and while they watched for movement from the District, my warriors healed their battle wounds.

  I used the time to consider Nethaz’s behaviour after the battle. It was my General’s responsibility to ensure Nethaz understood our ways. Three months before, the giant had approached the Horde for community. Rserker had accepted the oversized warrior as wúsc-bearn. As such, Rserker was to have stripped away his previous alliances, values and honour-bonds. The giant should have been ready when he swore his allegiance to me by pledging his bohr-hand. As expected, he had fought well, but I was left uneasy by his reaction to our victory.

  ON THE SECOND DAY AFTER the battle, I asked Nethaz to walk with me. The air was hot and dry causing my skin to tighten over my cheekbones under its harsh breath. The climate did not seem to bother Nethaz. His white skin lay thick with a layer of fat over his rippling muscles. He tossed his head back like a stallion, and his black hair glistened in the sun with the gloss of freshly applied grease. Such was the giant’s height that I walked one and a half paces to his every step. He slowed to match my speed.

  Ahead, a high ridge protected our camp from the sucking winds. I chose that as our mark, for I knew I could climb it easier than he. With a few quick bounds, I reached the first of the hardy brush roots, then used my hands to pull myself up the steep incline. Nethaz’s grunts as he scrambled in the loose soil reminded me of what I already knew: always find the place that gives the best advantage.

  Cresting the top of the ridge, I controlled my breathing and turned to look down on the camp. From this height, the brown-skinned tents scattered in the dirt below looked like throwing bones in a god’s game. Thankfully blessings were on our side. Ringing the boundary were our beasts, their oversized heads hanging down until their wide-nostrils skimmed the dirt. These witless creatures seemed simple beasts of burden, but with the Julees in command, nothing could pass through the perimeter without a trumpeted warning and a stomping that would press the blood of any enemy like wine. Yes, the ridge gave us the best advantage, protecting our camp from view, from the worst of the winds, and beyond the tents the forest provided an escape.

  Nethaz grabbed at a clump of dried grass by my feet, but it ripped loose, and he slid back 10 feet. The soft dirt buried his feet up to his ankles.

  “Make haste, Giant,” I said, flatly.

  He continued to grunt and claw until he was able to drag his heavy body up to the edge. He didn’t flop to the ground and pant like a dog but got to his feet as he should and stood to face my judgement.

  “Your tears are your dishonour.”

  Few men would have taken such an insult without drawing their blade. But he did not even drop his head in shame. His blue eyes remained steadily fixed on mine, unreadable and clear like the moist skies of my childhood.

  Finally, he spoke. “The lives I took are my dishonour.”

  The blood rushed to my ears with a roar of ocean waves.

  “Your duty lies with the Horde and with your Queen!” In my anger, my hand had found the pommel of my sword. “You were fighting for both.”

  Nethaz slowly lowered his bulk to one knee, his head bowed before me. “I have pledged myself and my weapon to you, and I serve you as you command.”

  “Serving is not enough! You should not question my commands with mind nor heart.”

  A year ago, I would have slain him for his disgrace. But the goddess had spared his life from my arrow, and I was bound to only wield my tongue instead of my sword. I was also keenly aware of the falling numbers in the Horde. I had need of his axe.

  I looked over Nethaz’s head to the camp below and recalled my father’s voice to guide me. Many times had my father told me the “Tale of the Warrior’s Task”. This story had been part of my teaching, part of my molding as I had become the warrior I was. I decided Nethaz needed to hear it.

  I touched the giant’s shoulder, releasing him from his kneeling position. His skin was strangely cool in this heat. I sat on the ridge, pulling my cloak beneath me. The brown-edged grasses pricked at my legs, while my pride prickled within. I taught lessons with the blade, not the word, but things were not as they once were. I crushed the sharp grasses down with my sandaled heel. When Nethaz had settled his bulk beside me, I spoke.

  “As a warrior, you do not take lives on the battlefield; you release them to the goddess.”

  Nethaz pulled his legs up and wrapped his melon-sized knees with his muscular arms. His shoulder was on level with my eyes.

  “It is your duty to fill the Hall.”

  I opened the little leather bag at my side and took out my carving of the goddess. Years before, I had carved her from an Oil Berry tree. The wood shone smooth where my hands had worn her curves. Holding her snugly in my palm, my cracked skin cradled her like a babe. I began the tale as it had been told to me.

  “Many lives ago, the world held many lives. And so, the fish, the birds, and the beasts became fewer in number, as people spread across the land in great numbers.”

  Nethaz nodded at my words.

  “Goddess looked down with pride, for she was Mother of all the land. Yet she was also troubled, for she foresaw the fruits of the world could not be harvested by so many, for so long. And so, to protect those who were already born, the Mother decided she would birth no more broods.”

  I passed my goddess carving to Nethaz, and he took it gently in his large hand. The wood looked darker against his fairer skin.

  “The mother also foresaw that some of her children must be taken from the world, so it could blossom for the others.”

  Nethaz trailed his thick thumb over her round belly.

  “Yet, how could Goddess choose the way and the ones to remove from the world? No mother could.”

  “No,” agreed Nethaz. His deep voice rumbled in my lungs. “No mother could.”

  Nethaz locked his fingers together, forming a woven basket of flesh. Then he raised his hands to his face and stared intently at the statue.

  I paused as I thought of the woman who might have birthed this giant. Though his breadth was ample, that of three men, his features were not bulbous or crooked. His strong brow creased over a hatchet-sharp nose. And beneath, his lips were tinged with enough colour, the
edges stood sharply outlined against his white skin. The giant was beautifully formed, much like the statues of the Tiberoon era. He was a fine example of the goddess’ blessing, and yet I was still not sure he was of her.

  “What mother could... And while Goddess toiled with the truth, the world gave forth less and less, and the children began to fight for what was left. The contests grew fierce, and many were slain.”

  Scooping up a handful of the baked soil, I sifted it through my fingers releasing the specks of powder to float in the hot air.

  This is what’s left, I thought.

  My throat tightened so, I could hardly go on.

  We sat in silence, while I stared down at the camp and wondered how I would ensure the survival of the Horde. After some time, Nethaz cleared his throat, jarring me out of my pause.

  “They brawled over what was left, and many were slain,” he prompted.

  I sighed.

  “When our Mother saw her daughters and sons lying lifeless on the ground, she drew stars from the sky and turned them into fierce, white-winged creatures. She called them Griffain, and she sent them to fetch her dead babes back to her. The massive birds flew down to the world and scooped up the slain children in their talons, then carried them to the Hall among the stars. Though Goddess was saddened at the death of her children, she knew they had given her the answer.”

  I traced a circle in the red powder at our feet. “Our Mother cast the lifeblood of the slain and forged three rings. The first was the gift of birth which she gave to her daughters—the MÓdere.”

  I drew the second circle, linking it with the first, “The second was the gift of release, which she gave to her warring children—the DreÓdreng.”

  I dragged my finger in the dust. “The third was the gift of return.”

  My voice had become heavy, and it was here my wind died. I could not finish drawing the third ring, for the souls of my people had not returned.

  Nethaz folded his knuckles over the goddess carving, blocking her from view. The wound in my side ached. I had set out to convince the giant of his duty, but I was no longer even sure of it myself.

  His deep voice rumbled beside me.

  “The third ring, the gift of return, was given to her sons—the Firslain. They would guard the Hall and herd the souls, releasing one for every death to the world below.”

  I looked up at him in surprise. “Did Rserker tell you the tale?”

  “They wait,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The souls wait in the Hall for their return.”

  I searched his eyes and he held my gaze, clear and innocent were his thoughts.

  “It is not the way to the Hall that has been barred, but the way back,” he said.

  I leaned closer until I could see the fine lines on his full lips.

  “What do you know?”

  His arched, black brows drew down over his eyes. “Those who serve the goddess serve themselves.”

  “You speak of the Firslain?” I asked, thinking of the elusive Priests of the Hall.

  “The Hall is full and the Firslain bar the way of return.”

  He rubbed his white knuckles as though they were dirty.

  My heat leapt in my chest and I stopped myself from cringing. Here the giant was speaking heresy, endangering us all. But had I not been sharing my doubts? Was I not as guilty?

  “How do you know this?”

  He was still, his eyes glazed as if in a trance, but his hands continued to twist.

  “Nethaz?”

  I was worried his grip might crush my goddess carving, so I leaned over his thigh and placed my hand on his. My skin looked like grey stone upon his marble-lush hand, which stilled beneath my touch.

  Without speaking, I pried opened his sausage-sized fingers, one at a time. He watched my hands rearranging his, until the carving was revealed. Then, I gently lifted the goddess from him and packed her safely away in my pouch. Nethaz continued to stare at his empty palm.

  I considered his claim. The Firslain were highly respected—they were the instruments of the goddess, her own children. I could not fathom they would deceive her. To think such was blasphemy and set my skin to sweating.

  Yet the souls had stopped returning, as if they were barred.

  A cry from below tore me from my thoughts. I stood and looked down the ridge to see a man scrambling up the shifting sands like a dog on all fours.

  “The sentinel pacer has returned,” he shouted. “There is movement from the District.”

  The hot wind flipped the end of my cloak near Nethaz’s face. He didn’t flinch. I yelled down orders to have my advisors meet me in my tent.

  Nethaz was still staring into space like a soulless one, when I left him on the ridge.

  THE SUN FILTERING OVER the dome of my tent cast an amber glow on my guards’ fur. The Flanks stood like sentinels at my door, until they sensed me. Then they turned to watch my approach, their long jaws lazily grinding the region’s grasses between their wide, flat teeth. They looked more like goats when they did that, upright goats with not a care in the world. Their slow movements gave the impression of slothfulness, but that was part of what made them excellent protectors.

  My father had taught me it was better that an enemy dare and is revealed, than that he slinks unknown. Surely, one seeing the Flanks chewing their cud would dare, but within seconds the Flanks could turn and then, woe to he who would attempt to pass them.

  I jogged the last few feet, and my guards straightened out of their slouching stance, becoming alert as they sensed the distress I felt at the giant’s revelations.

  I assured them all was well, before passing through a haze of their musky odor to enter my tent. Minutes later, the flanks allowed my General, Rserker, to pass. His blonde hair and beard reddened in the sun’s blush before he stepped into the dim interior. I crinkled the skin around my eyes in welcome. Rserker smiled boldly at me, his strong, white teeth as much a sign of his courage as his conquests. We had fought many battles together, and his pledge to me was unquestionable. He was my kin—my war brother.

  Dorn’s long, sure strides brought him into the tent with a flourish. Had I not seen him enter, I still would have felt the charge in the air. Dorn could silence a crowd, drawing all attention his way. It was the manner of Chronicle Wardens. And it was a skill that could be used to take over a rule, but Dorn would never desire to lead. He only desired to record the leading, and then retell it.

  Dorn’s wise eyes glanced at mine to read my mood. He was always impatient to know. He bowed deeply before me. His wavy, brown hair slipped forward to hang seconds before he straightened and tossed it back.

  “Laywren.”

  Dorn spoke my name like he spoke the tales of our ancestors—with music. But today, he was not charming, not intent on teasing or flattering me. His forehead was furrowed with worry. He knew as well as I, that we needed to breach the District, and he was eager to hear any news.

  “Welcome, Dorn.”

  I motioned for them both to sit.

  As I lowered myself to the floor hides, my leather armour creaked like a fine saddle. The pacer arrived to report what she had seen at the District, but she stayed near the far wall. Her muscles were long beneath her skin, which was mottled with three shades of brown. She had been a Rainling, but now, she was part of the Horde. In the forest, she blended into the trees making her a stealthy watcher, and that is how I allowed her to serve.

  I raised my war-calloused hand and commanded her to speak of the District wall and what she had seen.

  She stepped forward to stand in the amber rays leaking through the air hole in the top of the tent. Crossing her ankles, she gracefully lowered herself to the floor. The pacer opened her mouth and sound came a second later.

  “Twisted and immovable—the wood—like a washerwoman’s knuckles. Slyness—the movement—like a rustling within the twigs. My ear it captured. Ten times, I breathed over the groaning; great trunks rubbing in the wind. But there was no wi
nd. Straightening and pushing down—the curled wood—like planting sticks into the dirt.”

  Rserker was frowning as he listened carefully to her raspy voice. The pacers were fast runners and silent watchers, but their speech was difficult.

  “On hawrss back—men and women—rode out of the branches, into the forest.”

  “How many?” Rserker asked.

  “Seven.” The pacer curled her dusty fingers around each other.

  “What happened to the wood after the riders passed?” Dorn asked her.

  “Closing behind and around—the knots—springing after the last rider.”

  So, it was closed to us, again. I turned to Dorn who was leaning forward, intently considering the pacer’s words. “Have you found a chronicle of the winding wood?” I asked him.

  He turned his hands palm up, observing the lines in the creases of his fingers as he spoke, “I have delved deep within my memory, and I cannot find a tale of such a bush.”

  My disappointment was great, but I kept silent to spare him from knowing.

  “I do have a chronicle about a curling wood that will douse for water,” Dorn turned to me. “It is Hæsel.”

  “Hæsel,” I thought for a moment. “What shape does this Hæsel take when it douses?” I asked him.

  “It is straight and forked as it yearns for the water, pressing down against the hand that holds it.”

  “This is a rain-forsaken place,” Rserker winked at the sentinel pacer. “I too would dip my branches into the soil for a drink of fresh water.”

  The pacer did not look at Rserker—her timid eyes sought the sky through the tent’s roof.

  Tucking Dorn’s story of the dowsing wood away for another day, I rose. The others stood.

  “Rserker, send out a group to track and capture those who left the District. Gather everything you find about them. We must know all to determine the way through the wood.”