Spirit Sword

by Sam Ford

  "Stop," he said, pulling her hands away gruffly. "Snow blind."

  "I can't see!" It came out more a whine than the threat Jazreal had intended. She really did sound like a little girl.

  Red Hair pointed his spear at Old Mother with a smile. "That not stop her."

  They broke their fast yet again on hardtack. Yesterday, one of the squaws toward the rear of the train had cracked her tooth on the bread. After that, everyone made more of an effort to break the bread into smaller pieces and suck on it till it softened. Roused to their feet with a tired groan, the People of the Plains were marching again before the sun had even reached the other side of the pass.

  "It's so cold..." Jazreal clung close to Lydia's back.

  "It'll be alright. We're heading downhill now."

  "Marching make you warm," Red Hair said with a laugh.

  After passing through the narrow gap over the mountains, the train of human cargo passed single file between two rock faces and out into the world once more. Jazreal paused, staring at the land that lay before her. While her initial reaction would not be to call it beautiful, it was certainly more than the endless sea of grass she was used to. Rivers, streams and hills spread everywhere. Green, verdant trees in every shade carpeted the landscape. Mountains and mesas sprung from the earth like weathered sentinels. And everywhere she spied, she gazed upon the works of man. Towns and cities vied for space under the trees and along the rivers. Pastures and orchards of every kind carpeted the landscape, while tiny villages clung to the earth as thick as flies on a horse. Jazreal had never seen this many people before, not even at the Great Gathering of the Peoples of the Plains. Who were these men?

  "Welcome to Ras Shamara," Red Hair intoned, his voice reverent.

  One of the other slavers bent the knee, offering thanks to whatever god or goddess he worshiped.

  They're home, Jazreal realized.

  "Children, quickly. Tell me what you see," Old Mother whispered.

  "A vast land of hills and trees. It is like a sea of green, speckled with brown patches of earth." Lydia spoke low.

  "Farms," said Old Mother with a nod.

  "There are men, too. Enough to make a nation."

  "They have square wooden structures." Jazreal added over Lydia's shoulder, squinting hard. "And stone ones, too, like the Azca."

  "Buildings. Houses, most likely."

  "I've never seen anything like it."

  "Me neither," Lydia agreed.

  "Which direction is our destination?"

  "There." Red Hair suddenly came up beside them. Lydia and Jazreal both screamed. Jazreal chided herself. She’d been so enthralled with the landscape that she was taken completely unaware from the rear. Red Hair gestured with his spear point. "East. The Mine, near mountain. King's Crown. Come. No linger. Catamounts about."

  The journey downhill was easier but also more treacherous. A single slip or rockslide could send the entire train tumbling down a slope. Fortunately, Old Mother was as surefooted as a goat. Shrubs and smaller trees quickly gave way to larger trees, alpines and spruces. The tart scent tickled Jazreal's nose. More than once she found herself sneezing. Lydia, of course, loved the smell.

  Midday came and went without stopping. Jazreal's stomach growled in protest. She was ready to complain when her huntress eyes spied something moving through the trees farther to the north. Another line of people, traveling parallel. And what's more, they were Indians, as well. Another tribe from the north, most likely. She quickly conveyed this to Old Mother.

  "More slaves," she responded. "Any braves?"

  "Yes." Jazreal squinted. "Several."

  "They fared better than we did," sighed Lydia.

  "Or they are cowards who surrendered."

  Lydia ignored her. "Old Mother, how do you know all this? You don't seem surprised at all."

  "You both have much to learn. This is a new and perilous world. Stay close to one another. I will teach you all I can, but our time is short. Listen closely."

  The cadence of Old Mother's voice changed. It was a sound the girls knew well. As the storyteller and song keeper of the tribe, she taught all the children their history. Long were the hours Jazreal and Lydia had spent at her knee as their grandmother recalled the stories of old. Stories were important--they grounded one's place in the world.

  "Long ago, when the world was not so old and the memory of the first Man had not yet passed from telling, before the People of the Plains befriended the horse and the stars still sang in the sky, a single man changed the face of the earth. He was an average man of regular sort, neither prone to fits of cowardice nor of bravery. He spent his days toiling in his fields along with his neighbors. One day, he discovered a precious thing, a shiny stone, buried in his field. He owned it and possessed it, showing it to his friends and neighbors.

  "And yet, as is the nature of man, he wanted more. Under the cover of darkness, he began digging, and when the sun rose afresh, his pile of stones had grown substantially. Yet it was still not enough. He compelled his neighbors, offering to share in his treasures if they would dig his hole in the ground and bring the precious stones to him. The more they dug, the more ravenous his appetite became, until at last they reached the bottom of the pit to find nothing more than his covetous lust, avarice and greed. They pleaded with him to let them out, to share in his treasures. But as he piled the dirt down upon their heads, he said but one word.

  “Mine."

  Neither Jazreal nor Lydia said anything. How could they? The story seemed too fantastic to be true, yet they knew it to be, or near enough to make no matter. Never once had Old Mother's stories lead them astray. They always had a point.

  "Old Mother, why would you tell us this?" asked Lydia.

  "Because, child. Where we are going is one of the vilest places on the face of the earth. An open, gaping wound in the earth herself, where souls go in, but only broken creatures return. Nothing good has ever come from a mine. You two must avoid it at all costs."

  "We're escaping?" Jazreal found her excitement returning. "Yes!"

  "Not yet. The time will come. Be patient yet a little while longer. You two will have your chance."

  "I want to go now. Let's just kill them and be done with it."

  "Oh my sweet summer girl. My precious little Jazreal. You are so full of anger and hatred. You need to learn to love."

  "Love? What use is that?"

  "More than you know, my sweet. More than you know. Someday you will see. It is worth fighting for. You may even find it worth dying for."

  Chapter VI

  Ashes and Iron

  Cale awoke from another fitful sleep. Fire and death stalked his dreams, and everywhere he turned, Tully was calling for his help. Day faded to night and back to morning without much change. He shambled along, following the river south. At first Cale could only think about Tully and his family. He barely noticed his hunger and forgot everything he’d learned about surviving. Eventually, he sought shelter beneath a fir where he'd rested for a few short hours, chewing on pine nuts. It seemed the most reasonable thing to do at the time. Craning his neck skyward, he watched the sun hide behind thick clouds as snow gently drifted on the wind.

  Not snow. Cale realized. Soot.

  The forest was still and peaceful, calmer than he ever seen before. Idly, somewhere in the back of his mind, Cale recognized he had no idea where he was. These were not the woods in which he had played just a few long hours ago. This was not some grand, make-believe adventure written down in some book. Cale was lost, orphaned and alone. He didn't know what to do. But instead of puzzling it out, he stared blankly at the sky.

  It was the noise that first drew his attention. A sharp, high clanging which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He knew forests played havoc with sounds. Cale was ready to ignore it when he heard it again. And again. By the third time it drew him out of his reprieve.

  "What is that?" He muttered to himself, just to hear something other than the birds and squirrels. His thr
oat was dry and parched. Talking was difficult.

  Following the direction of the sound, he found where the river met a second tributary, nearly doubling the size. Cale was a fine swimmer, but the water appeared strange, almost unnatural. The rivers were as pale as his skin. Swirls of muddy gray and pink mingled in the water, pooling in the shallows and lending a strange, oily appearance to the surface. He stooped to drink, bringing a handful to his mouth. He spat it out immediately, his thirst forgotten. It tasted of cinders and iron, rotten and foul.

  Ash from upstream, he realized. And blood. Fire and blood.

  Sometimes the glow from the Fire Mountains could be seen from his home, the volcanoes coughing smoke into the air. That would then help to fertilize the soil. This was different. This was a curse, a memory which had followed him downriver. This was the remnants of his village and his family.

  The swim across was uncomfortable. The water stung his cut feet, bruised from his barefooted flight. His night clothes clung to him like a second skin. He emerged on the other side weak and cold, sputtering water. There was no strength left in his arms. Cale rested on the riverbank to dry his clothes, not caring who found him. The sun, a pale, tiny thing today, did little to speed the process. He dozed between bouts of shivering.

  The same strange sound roused him once more, forcing him to his feet. He continued to head east, away from the sun now well past its zenith. The shadows cast were long and golden, as if promising an early autumn. The trees thinned, quickly giving rise to farmland. The corn stood as tall as Cale in the fields, only half harvested, scythes and baskets strewn about. The closer he got, the more farm animals he saw--chickens and even some goats. But no sign of dogs, not even a bark. A well-trod dirt trail spread out before him, making the journey an easy one.

  Cale came upon the town quickly, rounding a turn and bursting onto a stone path. He stood for a moment in shock. The town was not especially large, perhaps twice that of his own village, but it was more alien to him than the moon. Stone buildings rose before him, most of them with a second story. Farmhouses with wooden beams centuries old. Storefronts for bakers and butchers, and a tailor's shop of imported fabrics, without the stink of a tannery. A temple stood in the center of town with a spire which rose above all. And streets that were made of stone, actual cobbled stones, weaved through the town, wide enough to pull two carts side-by-side. The road wandered over an enormous stone bridge and out of town, weaving south along some mangrove trees.

  "Where am I?" Cale's voice cracked, dry from smoke and dehydration. Hunger set his hands shaking while excitement steadied them. He had never seen the town's like before.

  A voice sent him ducking around the corner. "Any luck yet?" A gruff voice called out.

  "Not yet. It's a pesky one. Maybe we should just set fire to it and wait for the gold to run 'tween the stones?" a distant voice returned the answer.

  "Just do what you have to." The first voice faded. "We're running short on time."

  The temple, Cale thought. What are they doing there?

  He waited for the first man to leave before scurrying around the corner. He nearly screamed as he stepped on a dog. It lay on the street, its tongue lolled out and eyes rolled back in its head, its guts splayed about. Flies buzzed around everywhere. Cale recoiled, and then took a second look. There was another dog. And farther up the street, a person. Then a second. Then another. Men, women, children--all of them lay where they fell, some to arrow shafts, some to the sword. None of them had survived.

  Bandits, Cale realized. This town had been destroyed just as his had been. These people had died, just like his mother and father. Just like Tully.

  Fear stalked him, climbing up his spine and set his palms to sweating. But then the anger came in a rush, flowing through his veins. He wanted to scream and shout and kick, to hurt these men for harming these people, for killing his family. He felt reckless and brave for a boy. But the first step he took nearly brought him to his knees. Fear would not release him, keeping him planted to the spot. The thoughts and emotions roiled inside him, fighting for dominance, until there was only one thing left to do.

  It all came hurling up.

  After Cale finished dry-heaving all over the slain dog, the scent of death and bile in his nose, his body decided survival was the most immediate course of action.

  Cautiously he tiptoed his way through the street, continually listening for voices as the ruckus in the temple continued. Most of the doors had been burst into, so it was easy to find somewhere to hide. The first place he happened upon was the bakery, which suited Cale just fine. Hunkering behind the counter, he ensured no one could see him.

  Then the smell hit him. Loaves of bread and baked goods just sitting about. He scarfed down two small loaves before reaching for a third. His thoughts may have lingered on his family, but his body certainly remembered how to eat. If it had been under better circumstances the bread would have been a meal fit for a king. White bread, barley bread and rye, yeasted, salted and unleavened--Cale tried it all. The rain barrel outside the door sufficed for drink once Cale skimmed the soot off the top. Only after the fifth loaf did he notice the baker.

  Cale tried to figure out how he’d died. Without blood or any wounds, the evidence appeared to be lacking. Yet his face was contorted in great pain, tightly clutching his chest atop his overweight belly. Perhaps his heart had broken? Cale had read in a book once about a maiden whose heart had split in twain when she learned of the death of her one true beloved. Cale doubted this baker had died from love, but it was the best guess he had. Slowly, he moved toward the dead man. He knew of no prayers or psalms, but he did the best he could.

  "Sleep now, sweet soul."

  Cale used his fingers to shut the man's eyes. He stared at the dead man for a very long time, thinking about his own family, his own home. He missed his family desperately. It was difficult to believe they were truly dead. Yet, the longer he stared, the more real it became, until he could no longer hold back the tears. They came heavy and would not stop, great wracking sobs which caused him to throw up once more. Long and loud he cried, wailing for his mother and father, for Aaron, Regina and Byron. But most of all, he cried for sweet, sweet Tully. She had been his best friend and ever constant companion. In no one else did he have a more honest champion. Even Regina had treated him like a child. Tully had treated him as her brother. They had been together every single day of his life, and it was her loss Cale felt most heavily. Should his own hand be severed, he would not have noticed half as much if Tully were there with him now.

  He did not know how long he had been sitting there, but it was near on dark when the voices roused him from his trance, tears still fresh on his face.

  "Yeah, we're just going to have to forget the gold if it won't come. Hang on, I thought I heard something."

  A shadow fell across the door. Cale sprang to his feet. The raider was six feet tall if he was an inch, with great bushy eyebrows and mean green eyes. He let out a little yelp as Cale scrambled between his legs. "Hey! Wha--"

  The chase was on. Cale had little hope of hiding from the raiders in a town he did not know. His best chance was to make for the cornfields, hide in the night and pray they did not have dogs.

  Except, Cale did not remember how to get to the cornfields. He turned corner after corner, becoming even more hopelessly lost. At last he turned the corner and the buildings opened up. It wasn't the fields, though. It was the town square.

  "What do we have here?" Several men stood before him, each as tall as the last. Cale took off again and one sounded the alarm. All twelve gave chase. At least he hoped there were only twelve. Cale didn't give pause to count, running as fast as he could away from them. They came spilling out of the temple brandishing swords and hammers, chasing after him with angry shouts. At least he didn't hear any dogs.

  A quick left turn brought him to the edge of town. The wrong edge. Nothing lay before him but open, harvested fields. The river ran beneath a great stone bridge, but Cale knew t
hat would be the first place they would look. He couldn't turn back, so that left him with one choice. Thinking quickly, he sprinted ahead, leaping the palisade. The water under the bridge was only waist deep, enough to break his fall but certainly not enough to hide in. The brigands would have heard his splash. He had little time.

  As quietly and quickly as possible, Cale made his way downstream to the mangroves. Their root cages would make the perfect hiding place. The men with their weight and their armor would have trouble crawling through the mud in the river. Slipping between some thicker branches, Cale sank to his neck, keeping an eye out. He hoped there was nothing in the water that would eat him.

  A cough made him turn his head. Six winded men stood behind him, while another six were moving along the far bank. Of course they’d figured it out. Cale, you idiot. There's no other place to hide! Cale chided himself.

  "Alright kid," One of the men gestured with his thumb. "Come on out of there." Cale sank lower into the water. "You don't want to make us come in after you."

  "You're going to kill me." Cale's voice sounded high and scared. At least they couldn't easily get to him in the thick tangle of roots. Dripping wet and no larger than a young girl, he had a chance if they couldn't reach him.

  "True. But none of us want to get wet. Do us a favor, come on out and we'll make it quick. I swear it."

  I have to think of something. Cale's mind raced. He started feeling around in the water for something to use as a weapon. Anything! But he came up with little more than mud, dead leaves, a tooth and some small sticks.

  "Last warning, kid. You make us come in to get you and we're going to make you suffer."

  In desperation, Cale started pulling at the root structures. One could make a nice club with which to bash a man over the head if he could just pry it loose. He tried all of them, and while several budged, none were satisfactory to use as a weapon. He tried deeper, sinking farther back into the tree, as far as he could go, right up against the shoreline. There he found another root sturdy enough with just the right amount of give. He started to pull.