HALF A LEGEND, page 23
“Haikachi had the sickness?” he asked, already dreading the answer. If this was true, then he could guess the big secret.
“He is a handler,” Shoku confirmed, “and the murder of your uncle Neneh was still fresh in the minds of the tribesmen. Charchar first sensed it and told your father. Maybe your father feared for his firstborn son, so both of them decided to treat it in secret. Or perhaps they had hoped to use the gift. The shaman said that during Haikachi’s truly wild episodes, even their taming ritual could not keep him in line. After the second attack, the old man tightened his hold on your brother to trap the gift forever.”
“You think old Charchar’s death has unleashed the beast,” Sakhan said.
“I think so, and since Haikachi never learned to control it, he is a danger to us all. He must…”
“He is my brother,” Sakhan said brusquely.
Shoku was not so much older than Haikachi, though with considerably more bulk and wider at the shoulders. To those who did not know him, he looked like any other warrior, rarely smiling. With his new and shabby beard, he looked like a mindless killer. However, Sakhan knew the man’s mind was sharp.
“Be careful what you say to me now, Henchman,” Sakhan warned him. “Why do you tell me all these?”
The older man was silent for a time, his face difficult to read in the darkness. “A wild handler is a dangerous thing,” Shoku said calmly, “and soon the tribes will know of Haikachi’s gift. There are already whispers. As warleader, you must act now.”
Perhaps Haikachi reminded Shoku of his own mad brother who murdered the Henchman’s entire family in a violent fit.
“I am no shaman,” Sakhan said. “Or you expect me to send him away?”
“Yes, but not just anywhere. The Black Widow can help if you ask. The Edorians have never suffered a handler in their tribe. I hear they are skilled in destroying the gift.”
Sakhan shook his head. “If the Snakes of White Garden are so skilled, my father would have asked for their help. I do not trust them any more than he did. Haikachi will stay here, close to family. There is more to my brother than you know, Henchman.”
Sakhan stood up and his visitor matched him. The conversation was at an end, though he had a thousand unanswered questions.
“Your will, warleader,” his visitor said and walked out without protest.
Sakhan did not miss the pinch of irritation in the Henchman’s voice. He shrugged despite the stab of shame. He was protecting a guilty brother, just like his father had. Did this make him an unworthy chief, or just human? Worse, he even risked more than the old man ever did. What if Haikachi snapped in the midst of battle, unknowing of friend or foe? It would be a disaster. Would the spirits ever forgive him for the death of so many? Maybe he could give the Edorians a chance. Sakhan had a duty to his men, and family.
Now and again, he felt an ache in his chest, wishing he could return to the innocent days when he rode away on a bright day or went swimming and knew no guilt of abandoned responsibilities. But soon some trouble would arise and show him there was no place for that innocence any longer. Sakhan always found a way to accept the cold truth. With every test, like this one, he had to endure. First, he would see the Hawk chief, and hear what she knew of all this.
He walked over to where his wolfskin cloak hung on the wall and threw it over himself, welcoming the familiar weight.
-CHAPTER TWENTY ONE-
BONES OF THE PAST
The sky was starless and a thick mist clouded the glare of the fires all around him as Shoku hurried along with his head bowed, keeping to the deepest shadows. He saw figures sleeping close to ebbing charcoals, snoring and chewing in their sleep. Though the village was not intentionally partitioned, they all respected the undeclared boundaries. For that reason, he had dressed in his old Abun clothes before venturing into the tribe’s quarters, waiting until he knew the place was as quiet as it was going to get before heading for the chief’s cabin. Those still awake and who saw Shoku now took him for another warrior on patrol duty.
The world was changing, even if the tribes realized it or not. They were united against the sandmen for another time in their bloody story. And another moment of truth lay just ahead. If the army was not annihilated, the tribes were expected to return to the old ways and men would have to kill those who fought alongside them now. Yet, the present hierarchy within the army knew no blood ties, and lesser men commanded their own chiefs. The warriors felt that with hardwork, they could climb into authority despite their birth and most might not be so quick to accept the old way again. If that moment came, Shoku wanted to be clear of his doubts and know where to stand. He needed to know one last truth.
Nobody challenged him as he strolled up to the cabin. The pork-faced guard recognized the approaching warrior, and waved him through. Shoku was greeted with the stench of blood and herbs inside. Two figures were huddled around the lone fire and their conversation broke off as he entered.
“Shoku the Scar-faced,” the Edorian prince said, sneering.
“Leave us, Bugurae,” a small squeaky voice said. “I must talk with our friend.”
“Your will, Mother,” the prince said and touched her right hand to his forehead before rising. The boy would have deliberately barged into him if Shoku had not quickly stepped aside.
He watched the Edorian prince walk out of the cabin, astonished by the boldness of these young warriors.
“Valerae, my friend,” the Black Widow greeted before falling into a coughing fit. She was wrapped in layers of felt blankets, looking fat and thrice her true size. The firelight was bright enough for him to see the paleness of her eyes. The woman was unwell. “Sit and have some tea,” she said, gesturing to a pot on the cookfire.
Shoku helped himself to a bowl of the steaming tea, breathing in the aroma of the bloodleaf before he sat down on the only other mat in the room, feeling uneasy as he backed the door. Shoku had a mind to shift to the wall, but that would be a clear insult to her honor. He grimaced behind the bowl as he lifted it to his lips. A sickly wind had blown him into the hands of the Black Widow, though he could not trust the woman. Theirs was a shaky alliance.
“You spoke to him?” she asked before another wheezing cough seized her.
Shoku looked into his bowl, pretending to be unaware of her feeble state. “I spoke with him, great chief,” he replied. “I had to be quick. There were patrols around and one of them could have noticed something was wrong.”
“I understand, warrior. Did you tell him of my help?”
“I spoke of it. But why would you help the Lion prince? What do you gain from this?”
The Black Widow sighed, her smile even more unsettling than her frown. “You insult me in my own cabin?” she said calmly. “You think I do not have enough goodwill to help a troubled warrior? A wild handler is a dangerous thing and I risk the same in this war as everyone else. The boy could be a problem to the army and I will help. His father was a friend.”
Shoku drank deep, gathering his thoughts. Her last claim was his doubt. If Kheng had been a friend to the Edorians, why had he not asked for their help? The man did so when he was hit by that poisoned arrow in the jungle. So why not for his son? The woman hid something. First, she wanted a shaman and now she was after a handler. Perhaps she only wished to cure Haikachi and then use his gratitude to control him as she wished. It did not matter. He doubted Sakhan would willingly hand over his brother to the Snakes of White Garden anyway.
“I have fulfilled my part of the bargain,” he said, shifting the hot bowl from one hand to the other.
The old woman leaned back, coughing to clear her throat. “You still wish to know the truth of your father’s death?” she asked. “I hoped you had changed your mind.”
Shoku remained quiet. He was haunted since the night the Bumi scouts had found him in the jungle. The same dream came to him again and again, too vivid to be just a dream. This was not a matter of wishing, it was a matter of needing. His father was murdered by two men pretending to be nchindas, the vision had been clear on that. One was his uncle, a man Shoku once adored and almost worshiped.
Some part of him still refused to believe in the possibility. Gumdah had cared for him like any father would, even more. Perhaps guilt had been the old man’s motivation. Even when Shoku was lost in the Abu Maa jungle all those years ago, he learned how his uncle sent out warriors in search of him without the consent of the chief. It had been a dangerous move, and a fruitless one. Why would he think a man like that had killed his father, the man’s own brother? And more importantly, who was the accomplice?
“Some bones are better left buried, warrior,” the Black Widow murmured.
“I want my bones where I can see them,” he answered dryly. “You said a nchinda was on the wall and saw everything before he was spotted.”
“I remember what I said. Only three men left that garden alive and one of them was chased down into my forest. He bled out from arrow wounds, but not before he told his story.”
Shoku stared into the pits of her eyes. He had asked her before, perhaps she expected him to ask again. If the Black Widow knew the truth of those deaths, why had she not told Chief Bhamun the truth of his son’s death? Though the idea still troubled him, he would not voice it anymore. He would quench his doubt from the single question he had been promised an answer. At the back of his mind, he knew the old woman must have seen more gain in her silence. And if so, then the accomplice…
“I know of your Abun family,” she said suddenly, “of the wife and children. And how your brother slaughtered them in a blind rage. It must be hard to remember them in such a way. Do you wish you had never known them, never taken them back to Bamundia?”
“Leave them out of this,” he snapped. The woman teased him, and Shoku knew he would have to play along.
“They are a part of this, warrior,” she went on as if she had not heard him. “Maybe sometimes you wish you never met the Abun girl, and so spared her such an end. Now you carry that burden, looking for a way to punish yourself in measure to her fate. Even so, it is not easy. The truth is always with you. They died because you could not protect them, and such truths will destroy you. What if you never wandered alone in the jungle? Then you will never know the pain of her passing, or the blood of a brother on your hands. Lack of certain knowledge is a gift. Be glad with yours.”
“It is not the same thing.” He growled.
“But it is, and for that, I will not stir the dust on old bones,” the Black Widow said quietly, a sudden sadness in her voice. “Let the spirit of your father rest in peace.”
“You promised,” he barked, trying to rise. And his strength failed him. He felt his heart hammering in his chest. At first, he thought it was out of excitement. The bowl of bloodleaf tea fell from his numb fingers, spilling on the mat. Something was terribly wrong. The soup. He was poisoned. “Was it the Horselord?” he asked through cold lips, his own voice seeming distant. “Was it Kheng?”
The woman just stared at him and there was something in her eyes, an answer he did not like. The old snake was lying, he was sure of it. It would not be the first time. Even now she spat on his guest rights, the oldest tradition of the tribes. Only at that moment did Shoku realize he was dying. He would be missed and they would come for her. Shoku was comforted by that thought when he remembered nobody saw him come here except the Snakes themselves. Would Neneh even care that his Henchman was gone? Perhaps they might think he deserted.
Of course, the old Snake had anticipated everything.
He was barely aware of the hands that lifted him out of the cabin as the firelight dimmed into blackness.
Sakhan sat beside the warmth of the cookfire, watching the fevered figure writhing and twisting on a mat on the cold floor. His brother’s eyes had rolled over, the sign that he was handling even now. The older boy was covered in sweat and murmuring under his breath while he slept.
“He is trying to be in charge,” the Hawk chief explained. The woman sat on the lone bed in the room, her eyes on their handler. “He is learning to take control,” she told Sakhan immediately he walked in to see a shivering Haikachi with the white eyes of a handler.
He had feigned surprise at her claim, though he doubted she was fooled.
“How is this possible?” he asked the woman, feeling like he needed to say something. Some part of him considered the idea of destroying the gift and being indebted to the Edorians. He felt as if Haikachi could snap and leap at him at any moment. It was not a good feeling and he took pains not to show it.
“In rare cases, some handlers are born out of nowhere,” the Hawk chief explained. “Most commonly, the gift is passed through blood from parent to child. And others are made, like in the rituals of my people.”
“My uncle was a handler and he was killed for it,” Sakhan said. They never spoke of it, especially not in the presence of his father. He once saw the old man knock Neneh to the ground for asking too much of his namesake.
“I know of your uncle, Prince Neneh the Roaring Lion, pride of Bamundia and heir to the lionchair.”
Sakhan’s eyes narrowed on her. “And did you know of Haikachi’s gift when you decided to obey my father?”
She looked at the ceiling as if gazing into the past. “The shaman promised to take care of it, and he did.”
Till now, he thought. “Both of them are dead, ma Silah,” Sakhan said, “and the skyfather has put us in their places.”
“A poor replacement.”
Sakhan grunted, his mood a match for the weather outside. “I hear the Edorians are capable of destroying the gift forever.”
The woman sneered and spat into the fire. “Do you know how a shaman destroys a handler? A handler and his beast are always at war. The handler fighting to be in control, the animal resisting. Their lives depend on it. There are stories of handlers killed while handling, and they stay alive in the head of their beast. Can you imagine if an animal takes control of your mind? That is what shamans do. They force the animal into the head of a handler, give it control. Then kill the beast to trap it. Most handlers die from from the attack. The mind of others are shattered. And a mad man is as good as a dead one anyway.”
“So how do you destroy the gift forever?” Sakhan asked.
“The Edorians will teach him to be in control and then kill his handled animal. Most handlers pick another. So they must make him forget about the gift. I am not sure, but maybe that is what Charchar did.”
“Isn’t it a good thing if Haikachi forgets his gift?”
“The Edorians had powerful shamans and they made sure the handler never remembered. Most of them forgot more than their handling. They forgot themselves, forgot everything. No brothers, no love, no fear, no…”
“I understand,” Sakhan cut in, remembering a story his mother once told him of Haikachi. She said his brother once had a heart of gold and then everything changed. “So how do we help him?”
“We do not make the same mistake as your father and Charchar,” she said, her expression holding a regret he could only guess at. “I will teach the prince to be in charge, always.”
Sakhan looked down at his brother. In the older boy, he saw a faint reflection of himself. It had been a hard path for both of them. He was exiled from his father’s tribe as Haikachi was forced out of his gift. Now they had come full circle. Sakhan was a part of the Lions again, leading them after a fashion, and his brother had come back to his old self as a handler. However, Sakhan only ever knew the normal boy, the protective older brother and the deadly fighter. He did not know what to expect now.
The single note of a watcher’s horn broke off his thoughts. The Hawk chief jerked to look over at him and his hand instinctively dropped to his waist to realize he had not come with his sword. He was not even dressed for a fight. Haikachi had stopped his thrashing, now lying still on his stomach. Sakhan was about to ask where the Butcher’s weapon was kept when a second note moaned to announce the coming of friends.
“Stay with him,” Sakhan said as he threw up the wolf-headed hood and walked over to the door.
The encampment was in chaos when he stepped into the night, a slight drizzle falling from a moonless sky. The Abun took that as a bad omen, a visitor who came in the rain. The occasional flash of lightning revealed running figures and there was no order to it. Why were they so excited? If it were war, he knew his commanders would be dominating the scene, sending out the warriors and organizing a defense. None of them were in sight now. In fact, he might have seen a figure like the Black One running with them.
Sakhan plunged into the rain and hurried toward his own cabin. He had not taken more than a dozen steps when a small crowd cut into his path, the Accuser at the lead.
“We came looking for you, my chief,” the man said in a shaky voice.
“I heard the horn.”
“Yes, we have some…friends.”
Two malnourished figures stepped forward to stand with the general. “May the sky above never fall in, and may we below, never fall out, Chief Kaan,” the taller of the two greeted.
Sakhan would have stumbled back if his legs had obeyed his mind. How was this possible? He was surely looking at a ghost. The man died in front of him, killed by a shaman. Sakhan saw the smoking carcass of the hawk drop from the clouds with his own eyes. He mastered his shock and blinked raindrops from his eyes.
“Valerae, Takaang the Handler,” Sakhan said in a composed manner. No doubt word of this would spread tonight. He would give them something to talk of. “You look uglier than the last time I saw you,” he added, extending his hand and forcing himself to smile warmly.
“It is the lighting that is poor, my chief,” Takaang said, gripping the offered hand in a firm handshake.
