Storm's Clouds, page 18
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
“Adsila’s father tries to be like them, so they’ll like him and negotiate better prices.”
Garth was watching Waya’s expression, debating how direct and open he should be. He needed to get the boy thinking in terms of alternatives.
“It seems to me, the resistance posed by some of your family members is something you and Adsila must face together. It is not something you can solve on your own, either of you, without the other. It is not a test of bravery in arms, despite what her father may have suggested. There are things you cannot change. Whether by accident of birth, or the circumstances in which you live. But it doesn’t mean you have to accept anyone else’s label, much less a foreign label, either for yourselves or for your lives together.”
Waya raised his head, looking at Garth for once and not into the flames. What had he just heard? Could this stranger possibly have guessed? But no. He must have been mistaken. It couldn’t be.
Garth arose, leaving Waya alone to contemplate in privacy, while he collected branches to fuel the fire.
* * *
Atsadi wound his way through the corridors of the temple complex. He knew his master, high priest Onacona, would likely be in one of the medicine rooms, hearing the petitions of a supplicant. Atsadi was relatively young, not yet past twenty winters. He wore a beige robe, his dark hair pulled back into a braided ponytail. His large hands carried ink, quills, parchment, and the other writing materials which he was responsible for as both the pupil and recorder for the high priest.
He halted outside of a reviewing room, not wishing to disturb the medicine man at work. The sliding door was half-open. Even with his back to the door, Onacona was immediately identifiable. His short stature, his red robe with its golden-yellow hem, his white hair with its streaks of grey. He had it braided neatly, hanging across his back.
Onacona had seen many winters, his face and hands creased by the decades of shouldering his people’s history and apprehensions. He was examining a boy, gingerly adjusting the boy’s arm. The child was trying to put on a brave face but was too young to maintain the façade.
“You haven’t been taking it easy on your arm, have you?” Onacona said in his sedate voice. The boy just looked up at him, trying to mask the tears while his mother observed fretfully. “You say he went to see the medicine man in your village?”
“Yes,” replied the anxious mother. “He tried to reset the bone twice, but it won’t heal.”
“You have to keep the arm from moving once set,” Onacona replied. “Or else it will not heal properly.” Onacona passed his hand across the boy’s forearm, his consciousness reaching out, sensing the break, the fractured ends of the bone. Feeling the flow of nature, in the boy’s arm, in the world around them – sensing the bone set and heal itself. The boy whimpered as the bone fragments fixed themselves into place and fused.
Onacona relaxed, breathing deeply. The healing process could be draining, on both the medicine man and patient.
“Mom! I can move it!”
“Not so fast, little one,” Onacona replied. “He should let the arm rest for another week before he’s allowed to run free, outside again.”
“He will. Thank you,” replied the mother, bowing to him.
Atsadi stepped into the room. It was always a privilege to watch the master healer at work. “Master,” Atsadi said. “Tooantuh says he will speak with you now.”
“Will he?” Onacona replied, reaching for his walking stick. “Perhaps he should ask whether I am ready to see him.” Onacona stepped out of the room, then remembered. “Oh yes,” he added, turning his head to speak with the mother. “Remember to have the boy continue taking the herbal tea your village medicine man provided for you. It will take the swelling down.” He slid the door shut behind him and continued down the hall.
Atsadi led the way. “I escorted chief Tooantuh in the side room, east of the central garden.” Atsadi slid a door open, crossing outside into the manicured garden which dominated the center of the temple. Lovingly tended plants and pathways wove through the garden in meditative patterns connecting the entrances on all four sides. It was sunny today, and the garden was still adorned with the late flowers of autumn – their soft scent a reminder of the fragrant months of spring and summer which had come and gone.
As they weaved their way around the outer pathways, Onacona admired the garden grounds, and the great tree with its knotted bark and bare branches which dominated its center. He had spent many hours, reflecting and looking for answers among these pathways. It was a pity he had no time for such things today.
“It was good of Tooantuh to find the time to see me,” Onacona said with a note of sarcasm. “I’m only the high priest, after all.”
“He was eager to travel home today, after yesterday’s meeting with the other chiefs.”
“Yesterday’s meeting is precisely why we need to talk.”
Atsadi slid open the sliding door to a small meeting room. The room had a bronze censer for incense, and the air was still spiced with a faint fragrance from earlier in the day.
“Well met, high priest Onacona,” said Tooantuh as he arose from his seat and bowed. Tooantuh’s dark hair was only beginning to betray its first streaks of gray. His richly colored robes, adorned with colored beads and amulets of gold and silver, attested to his wealth and success. It was his success as a businessman, after all, which had led to his appointment. He was no common farm hand or herder, and he intended to let everyone know.
“Greetings, first chief Tooantuh,” replied Onacona, bowing in return.
“You wanted to see me?” Tooantuh asked.
“Yes,” replied Onacona. “I have grown increasingly uneasy with the messages from Batukhan. I worry that his designs are less honorable than he has made them appear.”
“I am concerned also, but there’s nothing to be done.”
“I have heard rumors this war of his is not merely about Lotaria. Despite our displeasure with the western kingdom and past experiences, there has been no substance to Batukhan’s reports of Lotarian incursions. The Lotarians might be savages, but there’s no reason to believe they have crossed into the plains.”
“I know, but we may have no alternative but to join. Batukhan’s ambitions allow no room for bystanders. He seeks either our cooperation, or our lives.”
Onacona rested his hands atop his walking stick. How was he going to get through to the tribal chiefs? How could he explain the dangers he foresaw surrounding the path many were already contemplating? “How many of our people’s sons would die needlessly, fighting Batukhan’s wars? Our people were once renowned as warriors, but not like this. This is not our way.”
“I know it’s not our tradition, but times change.” Tooantuh walked to the door, looking out across the central garden. “How long has that bare tree stood at the center of the temple?”
“Over three centuries,” replied Onacona. “Since it was given to our people as a gift.”
“Three centuries. And the tree is now dead, like so much of our way of life.”
“It’s not dead. One branch, at least, still shows leaves.”
“It might as well be dead. And with it, so much of what used to be.” Tooantuh turned to face the high priest. “You know I’m not ignorant of the old ways. I don’t advance giving up everything. But you must understand, we can’t stand in the way of change. When Batukhan’s emissaries return in the spring, we will likely have no other choice. As the chosen leader among the seven tribal chiefs, I will have no option but to decide based on where we stand today, not the remains of what we once were.”
* * *
Merrick brought his wagon to a halt. It jangled with the sound of the metal pots, implements and trinkets it carried. He was a tall, slender man, resembling a pole which had grown arms. He had dark, wavy hair and a beard and mustache which bristled outward. He was dressed plainly for a merchant. After all, he dealt in pots, pans and other housewares, not luxury items for the wealthy.
Around him, the usually sedate village was abuzz in activity: horses, oxen and wagons were being loaded. He saw a tall, muscular man wave and stride forth to greet him. “Hello Merrick,” Bruno called out. “Sorry we couldn’t have sent word. Could have saved you the trip.”
“What’s going on?” Merrick asked.
“We put it to a show of hands, and decided it was best to pack up. Move west for a year or two. At least until things die down with the northern raiders.”
“Raiders? You mean bandits?”
“No. Tribesmen out of Ikzhan. About forty of them attacked the village a day or so ago. Might very well have overrun and burned the village down, if we hadn’t had a little help. At least that much luck was on our side.”
“That’s too bad.” Merrick slumped back in his seat. He had hoped to make a tidy profit on this journey north. But if the other settlements of Lotaria were anything like this . . . “You had help, you said?”
“Just one man. A mercenary from the south. Just happened to be traveling through the area. Came like a bolt out of the sky, so to speak. Cut down the raiders’ captain, and the rest fled. Stroke of luck.”
Merrick nodded, surveying the village. Men and women were packing up any belongings they could carry. They would hardly be wanting to carry more wares than they already had. He felt all hope for profit draining. “What sort of man was this mercenary?”
“He said his name was Garth. Clean shaven, dark hair. He wore a black cloak – and was quite handy with a sword.”
Merrick’s ears perked up. “What kind of sword?”
“It had an ornate handle. Must have come from some master smith in the south. Never saw its like before. Had a dragon shaped into its grip.”
“A dragon you say? Do you know where this Garth was headed?”
“He left, traveling south, dragging along a captured raider for sale on the slave market in Fondio. You might have passed him on your way.”
Merrick smiled. Perhaps not all hope for profit was lost. “Do you have anyone with a fast horse? Someone who might be willing to deliver a message? I’ll pay them well.”
* * *
It was their second day traveling east, following the route trade caravans had traversed for decades. Occasionally, they would pass a sign-post – usually little more than a tree trunk marked with an open triangle, alerting travelers they were still on the safest route between the eastern settlements of Lotaria, and exotic points further east.
Garth led, followed by Waya – his left arm dangling limp and useless in a sling. Waya clenched his jaw, every jolt of the horse a painful reminder. It was a sunny day, with blue skies and clouds which resembled tufts of wool overhead. A good day for travel. Too good. Garth was beginning to wonder why they hadn’t encountered any travelers heading west. They should have passed at least one or two. It was then that he caught his first scent of smoke. The prevailing winds had come from the northwest, hiding any hint of what lay ahead until they were almost on top of it. At first, there was only a faint scent in the air. Then the wispy, black streaks of soot became visible, rising into the eastern sky. Garth tapped his heals, urging his horse a little faster. Waya’s horse followed obediently, picking up its trot.
As they came out from the dense forest into the scattered fields of the village farmlands, the truth became apparent. Ahead lay the charred ruins of a remote farm village which had once serviced travelers on this route. Passing through the outlying fields, Garth spotted the first body: a farmer, face-down, skewered by a javelin through his neck. Garth pressed his mount to go a little faster, anxious to find survivors.
Waya glanced around, growing at first confused, then gradually more alarmed. The village had been laid out defensively, for protection against the occasional bandit raid. There was a central cluster of farmhouses and community buildings, surrounded by individual farm fields. Waya spotted the first farmer’s corpse, then two more. Spent arrows littered the bodies. Waya didn’t know who these people were, but he wanted nothing to do with any angry villagers who might have survived. They were not likely to be friendly towards a foreign-looking boy from Tsien. More ominously, he wanted even less to do with any northern tribesmen who might still be around.
As they came to the center of the village, the completeness of the devastation became apparent. Not a single building had been left intact. They had been burned to the ground. All of them. The central square was strewn with the remnants of the last defenders to fall: women, children, and the elderly, futilely huddled for shelter. Their bodies pierced by arrows or spears, others with limbs missing or deep gashes across their heads or torso. Vultures had begun to congregate. The raid must have been recent, no more than a day or two before.
Garth dismounted, falling to his knees in front of the burnt-out structures, mumbling something unintelligible – shifting between languages Waya had never heard. Interspersed were a few words in the common tongue. “Too late. . . I tarried too long. . . . Too late.” Rubbing his face with his hands, struggling to absorb the stark reality before them.
Waya didn’t understand why Garth didn’t share the same apprehensions which haunted his thoughts. The band of raiding northerners couldn't be more than a day away. The two of them needed to get away from there. It was almost as if the strange swordsman wanted to find the raiders.
Garth arose, his face red with anger, a guttural snarl erupting into a shout. Startled, the vultures took flight. He turned towards Waya. “Get the spade from my knapsack,” he snapped. “We can bury them in the soft earth at the edge of the farm fields.” Garth headed towards the nearest building.
“They’re dead already.” Waya replied. “There’s nothing we can do. We need to move on before the raiders return.”
“We need to bury them,” Garth replied, standing like a black storm crow between the smoldering remains. “It’s what you would have wanted if it had been your family.”
“Have you forgotten? My arm is broken! We can’t stay here! What if the raiders return?!”
Garth wheeled around so fast Waya nearly fell from his horse in surprise. The angry swordsman walked swiftly to his horse, gripping Waya and pulling him from his saddle like a sack of vegetables. One hand firmly gripped Waya’s broken arm. Rage was in his eyes.
Waya felt a warm, almost burning sensation in his arm where Garth had gripped him. A moment later, he was released. To his surprise, Waya found his arm was no longer in pain. He gingerly flexed it, expecting the pain to return at any moment. The break had been mended. How? What?
“Get the spade from my saddle pack. Start digging. Now! I’ll begin collecting the remains.”
* * *
It was evening before Waya had finished digging a trench long and deep enough to bury the bodies, the night-time insects chirping as Garth dragged the last of the remains, wrapped in whatever cloth, blankets or rags he could find among the ruins. He had begun laying them, one on top of another in the trench.
“I thought there would be more,” Waya observed softly. He had counted only eighteen bodies, large and small – their features mercifully covered by the cloth scraps.
“I buried the rest on the other side of the village,” Garth replied. He had tried to spare Waya the worst of it. Had he been alone, without Waya to look after, he had no doubt he would have pursued the raiding party then and there. He had read the tracks left by their horses clearly enough. Heading north, towards Ikzhan. There was no mistaking their route, or the origin of the arrows and javelins he had found scattered throughout the settlement.
Thoughts continued to roil through Waya’s mind. Things he had witnessed during the day. Things he couldn’t explain. The tales of magic his grandparents had told him when he was a child. Tales which seemed a world away. About wars, and mages, and the magic of the little people – the fae. Tales he had always assumed were children’s stories. Always, until now.
The way Garth had healed his arm. How the vultures had left and made no attempt to return after his outburst. How no other scavengers had come to investigate. So many details surrounding this strange man. Even his knapsack. Waya could have sworn there hadn’t been a spade in Garth’s travel bags the day before. There was hardly room for such an implement to go unnoticed in the small bag. But when Garth had told him to fetch one, there had been a spade waiting – just as he had said. Waya was frightened. More frightened than he had been when he was wounded and captured by the angry settlers. Now he understood why the horse he had been riding wouldn’t listen to his commands to speed up or slow down. The man he was traveling with was a mage. And Waya – he was an unarmed boy from Tsien, completely at his mercy.
Garth was lowering the bodies into the pit, when one tumbled over – its ragged covering coming loose. It was an old woman, with white hair pulled back into a bun. Waya found himself gazing at the woman’s blank, open-eyed stare. Dead. He remembered his own grandmother. Remembered the old woman at the previous village, the one he had almost run down with his horse and javelin. For the first time, Waya allowed himself to see the faces of the victims. Allowed himself to recognize them as something more than just objects to be dumped into the ground. He caught his breath, a lump rising in his throat. It was all too much to bear.
Garth watched Waya’s expression. “She reminds you of someone you know?”
Waya nodded. “My grandmother. She died a few months ago.”
Garth looked at the dead villager. “Her name was Margrite. Her husband was a wood carver. They had a little grandchild named Beatke. She had golden hair and used to play on the floor in their shop.”
“You bastard! You’re making that up!” Waya snapped angrily, wiping the moisture from his eyes.
“I wish I was. Beatke came home once, so proud of how she had learned every word to a song from school the day before. Just a simple, childhood song. The kind they teach children everywhere you go.” Waya heard him inhale sharply, as if struggling to contain the emotions welling up from within. “But that memory would cling to the grandparents until the day they died.”
“How can you possibly know that?!”
