Could she have done more for her pet?
Yes, she could have but she was simply Nomi and she was lost and scared in the “Arth that was about to burn”. She lay down beside her pet, draped her blanket over him, and smoothed out the creases carefully. He didn’t stir as she slid in beside him. She tried to ignore the taste of exhilaration at lying naked next to him. She knew he didn’t want her. She knew he would never gift her a child and she accepted such things. He turned, the chain rattled, and he grimaced slightly with the pain. She embraced him in her strong arms and pulled his cold body against hers. To her surprise, he hugged her tightly and whispered “Lea.” It should have stung her but instead she imagined she was this fabled Lea. Warm and sated and naked with her one for life. He stirred in his sleep and gripped her tightly and she nearly melted. This was not going to end well at all. She tried desperately to fight the sleep as it overcame her but it was a losing battle.
His coughing woke them up. A desperate fit overcame him and he threw her aside trying to get out of the musty tent. After a few hard fought breaths, his airways began to clear and he collapsed beside the dead fire and waited for the dizziness to pass. Behind him, she recovered her clothes and began to dress. By the time he felt healthy she was fully clothed and already beginning to dismantle their cover for the walk ahead. Still miles to go.
Opponent.
Instead of standing around and waiting to be marched towards his doom, Erroh began to stretch his muscles. This hurt more than he cared for but he swallowed the pain and continued regardless. He closed his eyes and worked the knots out from inactivity and by the time he had finished there was a thin layer of perspiration down his back. She had said he was weak and she had been right. He dropped to the snowy ground and attempted a few push-ups. He lasted a dozen before the pain almost paralysed him. He had let himself go. He did a dozen more until the cry for marching was heard and he allowed himself a brief moment to breathe before walking like their hound once more but with his head raised. Soon enough the other female in his life appeared at his side and she was bearing a gift of a large mug of steaming green nastiness.
“For chest,” she said eagerly.
“Smell bad,” he said. There was a distinct smell of animal urine with a hint of honey. He shook his head warily.
“Drink,” she hissed taking a mouthful herself.
Well if the girl does it.
He drank it down swiftly and held firm against the retch while she spat out her measure. It burned his stomach but he figured anything that vile must have its health benefits.
“More later. Kill cough. Get strong. Fight well,” she whispered.
It sounded like a plan.
“Not long before end,” she said.
“Will you walking with me every step of way?” he asked.
“Every step that I can,” she said sadly.
The Woodin Man
The night after the first of the snowstorms, Nomi lit a fire beside his cart and began to pitch a sturdier tent. He sat by the flames drinking his awful beverage and answered her many questions about what love meant to him. He even said his mate’s name and she took it all in. She was a good audience. She wrapped a long ribbon around his chain and the relief was immense. When sleep called, she lay back and waited for him to come join her. He said no and she did not ask again but when the wind began to blow, he crawled over to her and smiling her most disarming and dazzling smile, she opened up the blankets for him to join her. He lay down and felt her warmth all over. She gripped onto him and closed her eyes. He almost felt human again.
They walked together as companions for a week until signs of civilisation began to appear along their route. Campfires could be seen on clear nights as far out that they touched the horizon, and the closer they got to their home, the better the mood among the Hunt. Only Nomi was downbeat and did not join the revelry. He thought this a fine compliment.
She loved the days she had with him and the nights as well. He taught her a few words of his language. They rolled off her tongue delightfully even though he laughed loudly every time she attempted to speak aloud. She took to cursing in his language every time she slipped in the snow or nicked her finger while preparing food and she liked those sounds most of all. He spoke of his world and she loved every moment, imagining a life with mirth and warmth and kindness. Every morning he stood in a fighting stance with nothing more than a couple of dead branches for blades. She enjoyed watching him strike down imaginary foes. She also enjoyed watching him bathe afterwards. It was a fine payment for her care, for he never thanked her and in truth, she never expected him to.
She stripped down each night to very little and waited for him to come to her. She would lose herself in fantasy that Erroh would succumb to desire and climb on top of her but he never did and she never leapt upon him. She did not know this girl Lea but she respected her and a strange part of her knew that if he succumbed to desire his heart would be heavy. She didn’t understand why his sorrow could upset her so. Such thoughts were not black and white at all.
Only once did Erroh nearly lose his mind in her presence.
A light patch of snow had just begun to fall. They were walking along a thin beaten path between two ridges. The path was the only route through the valley. It led into a deep evergreen forest devoid of life. She smelled it first. Little more than a delicate sweet aroma of nature, which hung in her senses. He recognised it immediately though and suddenly dropped to his knees at the side of the path and began searching through some wild flowers that flourished in the freezing conditions. He was a man possessed. His hands ripped at the flowers and checked each for its match. She stood and watched anxiously, unsure of what else to do.
The cart however wouldn’t stop and watch anxiously. It moved along with the rest of the Hunt. Its loud grinding roar never ceased as it drove through the deep snow. She saw the chain begin to stretch out.
“Lea’s scent,” he muttered scrambling through the flowers and not finding success.
The chain jerked him painfully and he stumbled and fell. He tried to regain his footing but the cart dragged him on the slippery surface. He screamed and reached for the wild flowers but the cart was unyielding. She saw the anguish in his eyes as he fought against the inevitable and she hurt for him.
“Can’t smell her now,” he cried pathetically as the chain cut through the ribbons and pulled him along the slush-covered ground. Eventually he rose to his feet a broken man and followed, leaving Nomi standing among the flowers and the falling snow.
It was an easy decision to make because it was the right thing to do. If Lea’s scent gave him respite then she would move mountains to help him. Nomi dropped to her knees and began to search for the source of the smell.
Where was this unnatural sweet smell coming from?
She dug her face into the ruined flowers and sniffed like a hound at time of the season and she followed the scent. She touched upon roots and wondered if it was trickling sap or freshly fallen berries but to no avail. She scrambled as dementedly as her pet. Ripping, smelling, and discarding while the convoy walked on without her. The snowflakes began to seep through her hair and she shivered but she would not cease her search. Every time she believed she had discovered the source, it was not to be. The ground ceased its rumble as the last cart left her behind and the last walker with it and Nomi suddenly felt alone in the frozen mud and slush. Soon enough the snow began to cover up the faint smell all along the path. She cried out in frustration and hammered the ground with her fist. This was her land; she should recognise which fruit elicited such a fragrance. She cursed loudly and began to crawl along the path searching for this impossible treasure. She knew the danger of straying from the convoy when snow was falling. Already they had lost a handful of fools this march alone but she couldn’t help herself. A silence enveloped the world, as the rumbling was lost in the wind. She imagined herself lost to her convoy as well. They would discover her come the warmer season by the side of the river. She would be a
frozen statue, forever beautiful. All of this for a pretty smell.
Still she dug along the side of the path for the source. She brushed some strands of hair that blew into her eyes. Wiping them away, she smelled the sweet fruit on her fingers and hope filled her. It was no growing thing at all. It was simply aroma and it emanated from a little pile of pebbles and twigs. She dug out a pouch and swiftly began filling it with the pieces. She stuffed as many as she could into the pouch and tied it up tightly before climbing to her freezing feet.
To her horror, the searching had cost her more than clean clothing. The snow had covered the path a few feet in front of her so she ran along the river until the trees clustered too tightly for a large convoy to pass through. She fought the panic admirably and lost. She considered backtracking and guessing where her comrades broke from the path but she didn’t trust herself.
“Hello,” she cried out into the silence. There wasn’t even an echo beneath the claustrophobic veneer of white. She was all but alone.
“Help me,” she cried and she heard the crack of a watching beast somewhere ahead. She felt like prey. She held the little pouch of sweet smelling perfume and smelled it. She didn’t know why. It was something to do while the enormity of her foolishness struck her. Further away deeper into the wall of white she heard a louder crack.
Follow the noise, her mind screamed, and she did. She ran until her chest burned and her limbs ached and finally she caught sight of a little line not yet ruined by the spiteful white. It was deep and wide and a few steps beyond she spotted footsteps. She caught their scent and then within a few hopeful breaths, the panic was over and she was back with her people. Somehow, among them, the light snowfall appeared far less threatening. She was angry with herself. She was no child. She knew the dangers, yet helping her pet had almost caused her great harm. What type of foolhardiness was this?
Was this love?
Erroh took it in silence and opened it gently. He inhaled deeply and smiled as if he were a free man walking with his one for life through lush green forests under the glare of a warm sun and beauty of a blue sky. He gripped the pouch tightly and let the chain pull him away again. She wanted to say something but instead fell silent. She left him alone with his thoughts.
It was in the valley of Conlon that Erroh learned the full horrors of what was to come. Setting camp outside the city gates, the Hunt took a breath and gave thanks to Uden the Woodin man that they were home. Like a crushing avalanche that consumed everything Erroh fell to his knees as the truth struck him and buried him alive.
There were thousands of soldiers.
The Primary was a trusting fool and because of this, the world was doomed. How could such a thing occur under her watchful eye? The south had always been widely regarded as little more than a fractured land of glorified nomads fighting among themselves for the few fertile plains within, so Dia the Primary left them to their devices. She had only asked for allegiance and those whose voice was loudest had offered it.
Those whom Dia had trusted for decades had been liars.
Erroh looked at his jailors and recognised their armour and colours for what they were. They were no wild barbarians from the south. They were the south. Nomi had been right. Oren did not command an army. The truth was far more terrifying. The roving army that had decimated the town was but one of countless others.
He recalled Mish’s words and a coldness ran up him. At the time, he’d thought it childish propaganda between barbarians of the road. He’d said a battle of the gods was coming and it would end the lives of all the tainted. A great war would be won in fire by the Woodin man and his disciples. A war that would end all evils, for only then could the world be reborn in peace and paradise. The world had been dying for a thousand years and now with the final days at hand, the Hunt in all its magnificence would reach out as the Woodin man’s fingers and put an end to it all.
The child had liked to talk.
There were soldiers camped as far as the eye could see. They were a terrifying collection of blades, armour, and foreboding death. Nothing could stand against thirty or forty thousand strong. Not even Magnus and his meagre army. The child’s insistence that Uden the Woodin Man had many fingers finally rang true. Each finger was an army. The tracks he’d followed with his mate at his side, had not been those who held him captive now. Nor were they the hidden menace that had slaughtered the town. Who knew exactly how many of these armies walked through the wastes killing as they went? What if Spark City had already fallen? How would he even know?
The following morning in the shadow of the city gates, they parted company forever. She broke her promise and kissed him again and he allowed her. One final moment of warmth before the end and he knew his end was at hand. She broke away, tears streamed down her cheek and he no longer thought of her as a savage from the Hunt.
He never knew what to say at the best of times. He found the words.
“You would be fine mother,” he said warmly as she stepped away into the marching Hunt slithering through the city gates leaving him, his cart, and his entourage behind.
“One love for all life,” she said, pointing to the precious gift she had given him. He bowed in gratitude.
“Lea,” he said softly.
Nomi smiled, gently shaking her head and pointing to her own heart.
“Erroh,” she said softly.
The beautiful female turned her back and joined the procession.
Oren, still nursing his bruises, gathered his twenty chosen Riders and rode fiercely from the city and its menacing army, deep into the mountains. Erroh was allowed the luxury of a seat in his cart as it raced along with them. He sprawled out and watched the cold muddy snow disappear underneath the methodical turning of the wheels. The wind deafened him and the pace unnerved him but he dared not let his head drop. Unlike most of the south, the route they took was upon a decent path though the view of snow-covered trees remained the same. The only significant difference was the incline to their journey.
When darkness struck they set up a small camp beneath a steep range. A Rider brought him a large bowl of dried pieces of charred meat. Erroh wondered would it be his last meal and savoured what he could. In truth, it was fine even if it needed a little salt. Though he’d done little more than sit for the day, he spread out under the cart and closed his eyes. He wrapped himself in his blanket and tried desperately not to think of Lea and indeed Nomi lying with him, reassuring him against despair. Sleep found him soon enough.
He awoke with his arms and legs bound by countless strong hands. Nomi was no longer there to protect him anymore and panic overcame him. He tried to kick out but they held him firmly as they dragged him from the cart out into the open. They stood all around him like a vicious mob and he knew this was the end of it all. In the moonlight, he saw the blade and they pulled him out flat. All of his killers roared and jeered him and he met the eyes of a vengeful Oren. The blade was thrust down violently and he screamed as it went to cutting at his waist. He spat, hissed, and cursed though he couldn’t feel pain beyond their grasp. He fought their hold until the hands suddenly eased and drew back and the cutting stopped and he wondered was the act of his murder completed. Was he in shock? Had his mind protected him from the horror? He reached down to discover no wounds and met only cold naked chain. The cruel captors mocked the “prisoner and his whore” and took turns dropping pieces of shredded ribbon into the warm fire. The ribbon caught the flame and burned brightly.
On the last day, he awoke to the noise of the twenty Riders preparing for the ride. He stretched his arms and then started his routine until his eyes caught the sight of a little red strip of ribbon in a footprint of slush. Erroh dug into the mud, recovered the piece, and held it tightly. It would never serve its purpose again but it seemed dreadfully important he keep a piece of her close. One of the Riders spotted his discovery, charged over, and punched Erroh across the cheek, sending him to the ground.
“Not for pet,” he roared pulling the ribbon from
Erroh’s grasp and waving it in front of his eyes. They saw no threat in Erroh at all anymore.
“Want hit me?” the Rider mocked and his companions laughed.
“Come hit me,” he screamed and pushed Erroh back to the ground.
“If you want. You come take,” he laughed waving the ribbon in Erroh’s face once more.
It was a fair deal.
Erroh climbed back into his carriage and wiped the blood from the ribbon, his hands, and face. It was something to do. The remaining Riders left their dead comrade behind and kept their distance as they rode out.
The path to the summit became steep, slippery, and barely wide enough for the small convoy. The four mounts pulled the cart onwards despite the treacherous conditions and Erroh watched as the ground disappeared beneath them as they entered the last few miles. They passed over a wild river and Erroh imagined it began its life as little more than a trickle in the mountains above. Who knew how devastating a stream and a steep hill could become. They climbed the final mountain path in silence. There was no boisterous jesting between the Riders nor even hushed whispers. It was an eerie thing and Erroh could see fear and reverence etched upon their faces.
Near the summit, they came upon large gates thirty feet high and painted in black. They trundled open slowly and the convoy passed through into the belly of the beast. Erroh’s heart beat loudly out of time as per usual, though it was not fear of death. It was the fear of failure. He prayed to the absent gods for strength and courage but deep down he knew he was alone. They passed into the courtyard and stopped in front of an ancient stone building. It was impressive, though smaller than what he imagined a true god to reside in. The walls were painted in black, the wooden frames of the doors and sills were crimson like the banners of battle. Nothing else about the Woodin Man’s stronghold suggested godliness. There was a blazing furnace for smelting in the far corner near the gate and scattered throughout the courtyard were various workbenches, tanning racks and grindstones, from which beautifully crafted weapons of every kind had been made. From giant war hammers of cold heavy steel to perfectly balanced flails and every blade ever imagined in between. They were weapons worthy of a god and they hung on each wall of the courtyard. Most of the courtyard itself was walled off but for a small section with a fine view of the frozen lands all around them. No doubt, the Woodin man could stand and look out over his world and imagine he could see everything from here. Perhaps if he took a clumsy step, he would fall a hundred feet to the river below. Could a man survive that fall? Could a god? Perhaps with the right amount of luck, nerve, and godliness, it was possible.
Spark City Page 43
