The Naming
Page 35
The air had become even colder, and the icy wind was blasting through every gap in their clothing. Ahren was used to the winters in the Eastern Forest and quite proud of how he would stoically handle the hostile weather, but the icy surrounds of Kelkor in winter were significantly more unpleasant. The knowledge that they were traversing a wilderness populated by dangerous creatures added to his nervousness. But nothing could have prepared him for what was to happen next.
They were half-way to the cave when the young man heard a quiet crying sound which seemed to be coming from the air directly above him. Irritated, he looked upwards but could make nothing out. The surreal sound became clearer as it approached, and now the apprentice could hear that it was actually several voices, all of whom were crying, wailing, whimpering and sobbing. The mournful sounds went right through Ahren and spoke directly to his heart. He breathed deeply and looked around to the others to warn them. They too seemed to have heard the sounds, and Jelninolan had a look of horror on her face. The elf tried to say something but then her face became the picture of sorrow and she began to sob uncontrollably.
Shocked, Ahren tried to go to her, but the sounds of the keening sucked all the will-power out of his body, and he closed his eyes in an effort to fight it.
The sky was a perfect blue and the sun burned mercilessly down. It was the kind of weather Ahren had loved above all other in his childhood days. He and Likis, his mischievous friend, would spend their days fishing and swimming, or eating goodies, which his wily friend had pilfered or scrounged, in their tree-house.
Now, unfortunately, things were rather different, and the intensive heat meant only more effort as he carried out his tedious work. Ahren looked down at his hands, which were holding a rusty plough, as he tried to break up the hard ground under his scratched and tattered feet. Using all the strength of his arms and back, he pushed the plough forward.
The Southern Fields were notorious for their unmanageable topsoil, and anyone working here had it twice as hard as the others. And as Trell, the mightiest landowner of Deepstone paid per ploughed furrow, Ahren’s pay was more barren than the field that lay before him.
With a sigh he pushed the crooked steel a further step forward. He breathed heavily and tried to ignore the pulsating pain in his left hand. Every push of the stubborn farming implement sent a wave of agony through his crippled wrist, which had been broken ever since his father had fractured it the night before the Apprenticeship Tests.
In the many hours since then that he had spent labouring on the farm, he had asked himself if it wouldn’t have been better had he participated in the test. But who would want a cripple anyway, and his father had been clear at the time – turn up on the farm at dawn.
And so he had acquiesced and taken on every task he was designated without complaint, while his hand shrivelled through the hard work into a useless appendage. Edrik, Ahren’s father, knew how to reap the rewards of his son’s labours for himself and at the same time ensure that any failures were laid firmly at Ahren’s feet. The confirmed drunkard managed to be promoted to foreman and was leading a very comfortable existence while the other workers laboured hard.
The target of his chicanery was, for some secret reason known only in Edrik’s black heart, his son. For several summers now he had been given the driest fields, the rustiest equipment and the paltriest food, and all the while Edrik made his life hell, during the day and even at night when they had left the farm and returned to the dark hut they shared. Over time, rage, grief and hate had become Ahren’s truest friends and even Likis had turned away from him the previous summer, once he had become mayor of Deepstone.
Ahren had been spending his time alone, but for an ever-present nagging brooding.
Until now, that is. For the last while an idea, both breathtakingly simple and frighteningly urgent, had been forming in his head. He had begun, almost mechanically, to whet one of the simple kitchen knives they possessed in their sparsely furnished home, on a stone in the forest. He would sit there for hours swaying backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, while his crippled hand held the knife and the scraping sound of the sharpening blade took over his mind. The pictures in his head became clearer with every passing day. A soft shove between the ribs or a loving stroke across the throat was all that was needed to be free. Free from his father.
But so far, he had not found the courage to do it. His hand had never carried out the necessary action, no matter how many times he had tip-toed over to the sleeping man’s bed. He would stand there for hours, dreaming of doing it, yet never quite managing it.
Here and now, in the scorching midday sun on the Southern Field of Trell’s farm, it hit him like a thunder stroke.
He would never be free. Unless it were his own throat, his own heart that his knife would lovingly caress.
He pulled the blade out from the folds of his clothing and raised it in the blazing light of the sun. The reflection on the finely-sharpened blade promised salvation and peace. He placed the tip of the knife on his chest and almost with pleasure he increased the inward pressure and imagined the disappointed face on his father when he realised that his son had at last escaped him.
Ahren awoke, gasping with the cold. Frozen tears were burning his face and his hunting knife fell with a clatter from his hands, numbed with the icy temperature. There was a coolness pressing in on his skin, where the tip of the blade had cut through the thick clothing. Ahren stood up and pulled the leather tiles of his ribbon armour back over the hole so he would be protected from the biting wind.
He looked around, confused. He was kneeling up to his thighs in snow, and most of the others were in the same position. Only Uldini was standing, eyes ablaze, in a little crater free from snow, and there was a lost look on his face with fresh scratches on his cheeks, which had been caused by his own fingernails. Falk was staring blankly while Jelninolan was curled over in the snow, her face hidden in the powdery substance. Khara was sitting back on her heels in what seemed to be some kind of ritual posture. She had opened her clothing at her stomach and the tip of Windblade was placed on her skin. She was blinking owlishly as if she had just woken up from a deep dream. Selsena and Culhen were nowhere to be seen.
Trogadon, however, presented the strangest picture. The dwarf was standing, his massive frame in a crouched position, and his arms and legs seemed to be jerking uncontrollably. He suddenly leaped against a rock and in seeming disgust he began hammering his head against the stone surface.
Totally confused, Ahren leaped to his feet, leaving the accusatory knife on the snow beneath him. He could hardly fathom what he had almost done, and the thought was too much for him to bear.
Thankful for the distraction, he rushed over to the others to help them. He turned Jelninolan on her back, who immediately began gasping for the freezing air. He carefully took Windblade out of Khara’s hand and pulled her up onto her feet. Then he went over to Falk, who was now speaking reassuringly to Uldini.
‘Breathe in deeply, good man. You’re among friends and there’s no need to pronounce magic spells. A Grief Wind caught us by surprise and you’re just coming back to yourself now’, he whispered imploringly to the childlike figure with the burning eyes.
Ahren gasped. A Grief Wind! Falk had told him about this being. The first attempt of the gods to create life without the others’ help, and it had failed spectacularly. These first beings were full of blemishes or horrendously ugly and very often dangerous.
The Grief Wind was an ethereal creation, formed by HER, WHO FEELS. It had no physical body and was therefore nothing more than a collection of concentrated emotions, imprisoned in something which, when seen clearly, was similar to a shimmering vortex of air. It was almost impossible to fight against it, and even Falk’s advice had been quite sobering to hear.
‘If you see one, run. Warn everyone in the vicinity and sit things out until it has moved on. A Grief Wind moves like a cloud, and if it gets no nourishment, it floats on’, the old man had said.
This one here had caught them completely unaware and they had had no time to protect themselves. There were stories of very strong-willed people managing to survive a Grief Wind by locking themselves into empty rooms where they could not be harmed. But here, in the darkness of the wilderness, they should all by rights have died.
Falk seemed just as dumbfounded as Ahren, and so the apprentice left his master to deal with Uldini while he went over to Trogadon, who was still jerking wildly, although the movements were not quite as powerful as earlier. The dwarf’s eyes were rolling in his head, and he was smashing it again and again against the rock. His forehead was decorated with large bruises, and it was only thanks to his thick skin that his face wasn’t lacerated.
‘What should I do?’ shouted Ahren helplessly and looked over his shoulder at Falk and the others.
Much to his surprise it was Uldini who answered, whose words, hoarse through anger, came out through gritted teeth.
‘He must not open his mouth. The lunatic has breathed in the Grief Wind and has imprisoned it. I have to banish it as soon as I’ve regained control over myself, but he must on no account exhale until I’m ready.’
Ahren stared at the compact figure of the warrior dwarf in disbelief. It was true that his chest wasn’t rising and falling and slowly it dawned on the apprentice what was happening. The Grief Wind was controlling part of his squat body and was trying to force the dwarf to breathe out. The grimace on Trogadon’s face showed Ahren that his strength was fading fast.
Ahren spoke encouragingly to the dwarf even if he doubted that his opposite number was taking anything in. Ahren stood there helplessly and could do nothing more than trust in the strength of will of their new travelling companion. He shoved his arm between the head of the dwarf and the rock, trying to cushion the blows that Trogadon was hammering under the increasing control of the Grief Wind.
After what seemed like an eternity he heard a hoarse growling voice.
‘Out of the way’, ordered Uldini urgently and Ahren spun to the side.
‘Khuldat throl sundalar’, intoned the Magus with a voice so powerful that the snow tumbled off the surrounding trees. Then a bluish-violet flash of light came in a ghostly silence from the skies and hit the dwarf directly between the eyes.
Trogadon stopped jerking, blinked once and collapsed like a house of cards.
Falk cursed and ran over to him, and the others joined him with worried looks on their faces.
‘Was there no other option? What if you’ve killed him…’ began the old Forest Guardian as he scolded Uldini.
‘No time for remonstrating, we have to act now. Jelninolan, your healing hands, please’ said Uldini briskly.
The two Ancients laid their hands on the dwarf’s chest and began uttering a charm.
Before they had even spoken three syllables, a dull, droning rumbling sound began to develop, growing steadily louder and stronger. Ahren glanced around in panic until he finally understood. The dwarf let out an almighty belch which left everyone around him in petrified silence.
Then Trogadon sat up and looked around in satisfaction.
‘Everyone still here? Excellent! It would have been terrible if my headache had been a waste of time.’
Then his eyes rolled again and he collapsed on the ground.
‘I think he’ll survive’, said Uldini drily.
He and Jelninolan completed their charm, but Ahren could see from their expressions and the weak glowing of their hands that they were now preserving their magic strength, now that the dwarf had so impressively put his constitution to the test.
Uldini began giving orders even before he stood up.
‘He needs to be carried and we have to get out of here immediately. The banning of the Grief Wind was no walk in the park and it certainly hasn’t gone unnoticed. A cosy cave for hiding in is exactly what we need now.’ He looked at Ahren expectantly and the young man picked up his knife and started walking again and so they moved on. Falk, Khara and Jelninolan carried the snoring dwarf and after a slow and exhausting march they finally arrived at their new refuge.
The night seemed to last forever. They all crouched, shivering from the cold in total silence, and nobody dared to light a fire or to sleep. Twice they heard enormous creatures tramping by the cave and once Ahren was convinced he saw enormous wings beating heavily directly above the cave.
He spent the whole night worrying about Culhen and Selsena, both of whom had fled during the attack of the Grief Wind. Falk had explained to him that animals fled instinctively from the creature, but the longer the night wore on, the more concerned the apprentice grew. During this time, Uldini and Jelninolan had interlocked the fingers of their hands with the others’, which created a magical barrier deflecting others away from their place of refuge.
When dawn broke, they let go of each other and closed their eyes in exhaustion.
‘We’re not going anywhere today’, mumbled Uldini irritably, at which point the two Ancients fell asleep.
Falk took over temporary command.
‘Trogadon, Khara, you guard the cave and our two sleepy-heads. Ahren and I will try to find someone from the Wild Folk and also see if we can catch sight of Selsena and Culhen. Yesterday I thought I’d seen signs of goblins. Maybe not Uldini’s first choice but after the Grief Wind’s attack I think we’re all agreed that we need to disappear from here as quickly as possible’.
The apprentice nodded and gathered his bundle as he prepared to trot off. He was glad to have something to do, after having spent the whole night with nothing but his thoughts. He had been deeply affected by the fact that he had nearly ended his own life and by the terrible visions the Grief Wind had presented to him, and he was almost going mad with worry concerning Culhen’s whereabouts.
He was halfway out the cave when Falk stopped him.
‘Ahren, you’re staying by my side today, I don’t want to push our luck any further than necessary.’
The young man gave a respectful nod and all in all, he was happy with that. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind, and he wasn’t sure how reliable he would be carrying out his responsibilities after his sleepless night. On the other hand, he really wanted to look for Culhen as soon as possible. Falk saw his concern and placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘There’s no need to worry. He will probably have stayed with Selsena and the old girl really know how to look after herself.’
He gave a look of encouragement but Ahren couldn’t shake off the impression that his master’s words were primarily aimed at giving his master himself courage.
Ahren decided that he would first keep his eyes peeled for wolf or hoof traces and then look for the goblin later. But they’d hardly left the cave and trotted out into the snowy landscape when their animal companions came galloping out of the undergrowth and up to them. Ahren embraced Culhen with a firm hug and Falk welcomed Selsena with a gentle stroke on her nostrils.
After a short exchange of thoughts with the Titejunanwa, the old Forest Guardian gave a groan.
‘But of course! The magic charm of our wizards duped Selsena and Culhen just as much as the other nightly visitors. They knew we were in the vicinity but couldn’t find out exactly where.’
He shook his head energetically.
‘Uldini and Jelninolan must have been really worried if they didn’t even leave a tiny hole in the protective shield for Selsena.’
Content that everyone was more or less safe and sound, the two Forest Guardians continued on their way, with wolf and warhorse by their sides. They spent the whole morning exploring the area that Falk had seen the day before, and shortly before noon they made a
find.
‘Over there’, whispered Falk and nodded his head in a westerly direction. Ahren concentrated on the snow-covered ground but couldn’t make out any tracks. He frowned and looked more carefully, but there was nothing of interest apart from a couple of rabbit tracks.
Tut-tutting in annoyance, Falk grasped his apprentice firmly by the back of the neck and then turned his head, first to the left and then upwards. The young man immediately saw three boulders, stacked on top of each other in an impossible act of precision and balance, considering they were totally different to each other in size and form, and none of them appeared to have been sculpted. The second and third boulder hardly seemed to be touching each other at all and it almost seemed as though the top one was floating in the air.
‘Goblins don’t leave behind footprints if it doesn’t suit them. If you want to find them, then you have to keep your eyes peeled for practical jokes like the one you’re looking at’, he whispered.
‘That was a goblin’s doing?’ Ahren was completely taken aback, not to mention impressed. ‘Are they really that strong?’ He began to feel somewhat queasy.
‘You mean physically?’ Falk shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not. A goblin did that with a click of his fingers. They are highly magical creatures with a direct connection to the source of all Jorath’s magic. Some scholars say that the goblins are magic.’
He rubbed his beard with his hand and then frowned in annoyance.
‘Unfortunately, they not only have extraordinary powers, but they’re also highly impulsive and their ability to take responsible decisions would be equivalent to that of a spoiled child.’
He pointed over at the rocks.