Oathtaker

by Patricia Reding

  “Stop! Mara . . . stop. Rowena’s releasing her power may have bought us—bought you,” he quickly corrected himself, “a bit of time. But someone trailed us for months and they won’t stop now. We need to erase whatever signs we can of what happened here.”

  She recalled the teachings of her local unit of the Oathtakers’ Guild, her hood. When the ranking member of the Select released her power to her offspring, a unique magic allowed for a short window of time during which no one could track the new ranking member. Its origins had long since been forgotten, but stories told of the event having been witnessed more than once before.

  “How much time do you think we have?”

  “It’s hard to say.” He dropped his pack outside the door.

  “Could you venture a guess?” She found his behavior encouraging her natural tendency toward sarcasm.

  He gazed into the distance. “About two sun downs.”

  “Well then, I suppose leaving Rowena’s body here would tell a great deal. You’re right. It won’t take that long to dig a grave. We don’t want it too shallow, but we need to be quick and—”

  “Think,” he said condescendingly. “If we bury her body, those thugs following us could still find it. More likely, they would find it. Then they’d know she gave birth. We should burn this hut with,” he hesitated, “her body. Then if those cretins find any sign we were here, or if they find her remains, they’ll still have no evidence of the twins or of what happened here. With any luck, they’ll think their chase has come to a close.”

  “Yes, I guess it’s not likely they’d give up if they were responsible for the pack of grut that tried to take Rowena down. When they realize the beasts were destroyed, they’ll have good reason to think someone survived.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Well then, let’s get moving.” She exited.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some wood so that when this hut goes up in flames, there’s plenty of fuel to keep it burning hot and for a good long time. The less evidence the better. Isn’t that what you just said?”

  Leaving him, Mara went into the woods. She kept Reigna tied to her front side and walked about carrying Eden’s basket. It left her but one hand to work with, so she selected large branches that she could drag back to the hut.

  After some time, having seen no sign of Dixon, she grew irritated that he wasn’t assisting her. Finally, breathless, she stepped back inside the hut. She found him kneeling at Rowena’s side.

  “Dixon, finish your ‘good-byes’ so we can get out of here.”

  Her voice jolted him back to the present. He unclasped a locket from around the dead woman’s neck and placed it in his breast pocket, then slipped a ring from her finger. Finally, he pulled the blanket up over her face.

  Mara wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard him tell Rowena to “sleep well.” Perhaps it was not such a good idea to take him along. She couldn’t allow his mourning to hold them up. Shrugging, she went to gather more wood.

  Dixon joined her efforts, but several minutes later, was nowhere in sight. Mara looked around. There, at the other side of the hut, he had squatted down. He brushed sand away from something on the ground. His head cocked to one side, then the other.

  She approached.

  “What’s this?” He moved small twigs and fallen leaves aside revealing several sharp, triangular-shaped items of an uncertain gray, thick and curved, each about the size of his thumb.

  She put Eden’s basket down, then dropped to her knees for a closer look. She picked up one of the objects and turned it over. “Could they be . . . grut teeth?”

  “Then there really were grut here,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon? Of course there were grut here. I said as much, didn’t I?” She got back to her feet.

  “Hmmm.” He shrugged and looked away, as though embarrassed for having been so tactless. “Well, we’d best take them along. They contain powerful magic.”

  “Magic!”

  “What are they teaching in the hood around here anyway?” he muttered. “Yes, they contain very powerful magic. They’re the only part of a grut that might remain after its destruction . . . which is why they’re extremely rare. The beasts can’t attack one who holds a grut tooth.” He looked at her. “Of course the wearer could fall to any number of other weapons, but a grut couldn’t harm him . . . or her.”

  Saying nothing more, she collected a total of twelve teeth. After placing eleven of them in a small leather bag tied to her belt, she approached Dixon who’d gone back to hauling wood. She held out one of the teeth.

  He put his hand out to accept it, though he refused to meet her eyes. After pocketing it, he resumed his task.

  Once they collected enough wood to keep the cabin burning long and hot, Dixon reached forward, his hand in a fist. With a flick of his fingers, a fire burst forth.

  Mara sprang back in surprise. “Well then,” she said after catching her breath, “I guess we’d best get going. I have a lot of questions for you. I suppose, since my training has been so abysmal, so appallingly lacking, I’ll need to draw on your expertise for a time. If you’re willing, of course.”

  He shrugged.

  Just then a howl carried through the air. Though well in the distance, it made Mara edgy. “Let’s go.”

  Dixon turned away and entered the forest.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A sudden storm caught the small and ragged group of men unaware. Thunder and lightning rattled. Rain pelted. On horseback, they slogged through until their mounts resisted, then dropped camp near the edge of the forest.

  Gadon, leader of the motley crew, wore pants and a tunic of a dull brown wool mottled with the filth of dust and food stains accumulated over many days. His nearly black hair fell past his shoulders in stringy, oily twists. His skin was light, his piercing eyes small and black. He appeared angry about everything, content with nothing, and cared for by no one.

  “Bruce!” he shouted. He stood with his hands on his hips, scowling at the poor recipient of his attentions.

  “Yes, sir, master Gadon, sir,” came the ready reply, as out from behind the horses, a young man skittered forward. His dark eyes darted about, like flies flitting at offal. One wandered, making it difficult to ascertain the subject of his gaze. He licked his chapped lips repeatedly. Angry pustules covered his face and neck, interrupted only by a scar that ran down his left cheek from just below his eye to his chin.

  Holding a bag of oats, he pulled on its ties to close it. Shaking in his nervousness, the ties instead slipped from his hand. Down went the bag. Oats now covered his already manure-slogged shoes. His hands jittered as his focus skipped to Gadon.

  “Idiot!” The man stepped toward the cowering youth and delivered a blow with the back of his hand, knocking Bruce from his feet. “Isn’t that right? You’re an idiot.”

  “Yes sir, master Gadon, sir.” Bruce’s voice quivered. He scrambled back to his feet. Rainwater dripped from his hair, and mud now accompanied the former filth of his attire, running the various stains and grunge together into a mottled frenzy of foulness.

  “Call Simon for me, then get the others and finish with those horses.”

  As the young man scurried away, Gadon entered his tent. Inside, upon a makeshift table, sat a map of Oosa, a burning lamp, and dinner, which consisted of dried meat, cheese, stale bread, and nuts. An old stump he’d dragged in from the nearby forest, served as a stool. Breaking a nut open with his teeth, he unfolded the map, its crinkling sounds filling the air.

  Odd were the circumstances behind this mission. Gadon had worked at the palace in Shimeron for some years. He’d been an officer in charge of a legion, but over time his sympathies changed. He slacked in his work and drank to excess. Eventually, his superiors demoted him. So, when seeking a scapegoat for his troubles, he fixed his resentment on the Select. He reasoned that they sought to rule the lives of all men, whereas people just wanted to do as they pleased.

  One day whil
e on duty in the palace gardens, he saw a woman, a beauty beyond compare. She had porcelain smooth skin. Her silken hair hung over her shoulders. Her lips, painted scarlet, nearly matched her blood red satin dress. Her scarves played in the breeze sending about her, the high, thick, sweet, overpowering scent of rose and lily.

  The woman approached Gadon much as a snake might slither upon its dinner. Cocking her head, she looked at him from the outside corner of her eye, then ran a fingernail down his chest.

  “Hmmmm,” she purred. “What have we here? A big, strong soldier.” Eyelashes went closed, paused, then opened again, as she graced him with the slightest of smiles. And so began the seduction of Gadon.

  Over the next months he became more involved with the woman, and less concerned about any consequences. The two met regularly in a hidden alcove in the palace gardens where they sought their delight in one another. Over time the woman gained greater and greater control over him, his desires, and his thoughts.

  After some time, Gadon’s ladylove recruited him to keep his eye on a certain Select. “She’ll be the ruin of us all if left to her own devices,” she cooed. “I need you to watch her for me. Can you do that?” She moved in closer, her lips just inches from his.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes from the fullness, the promise of that mouth. He could feel her, smell her, taste her with each breath she exhaled.

  “That child simply must be destroyed,” she whispered. “If not, Rowena will stop at nothing to bring it to power one day.”

  He simply nodded. He would agree to anything. The woman had bewitched him, and he cared not.

  “Rowena has heard rumors that she’s in danger here. She’s growing ever more fearful. She plans to leave the palace tonight. I need you to follow her and to make sure that the child she carries never sees the light of day. Don’t come back until you’ve accomplished that.”

  After leaving their trysting place, a gentleman overtook him. Tall and slim of build, the man had melded into the shadows. “I have something for you,” he said as he grabbed Gadon’s shirt, slammed him up against the courtyard wall, and then held a knife to his throat. “If you say anything, I’ll kill you,” he snarled.

  True to form, Gadon simply nodded. Independent thought had become foreign to him.

  The man sheathed his knife, then reached into a bag tied to the waistband of his black wool pants. He pulled something out, then handed the object to Gadon.

  “Take this. It’s a call for the grut. Only use it when you know you’re very near Rowena. We don’t want undue attention drawn to this mission now, do we?” He chuckled. “But whatever you do, destroy her before she bears her child. Do not fail,” he added as he released Gadon with a shove, then disappeared into the night.

  Immediately, Gadon recruited a group of men who’d run into difficulties with their palace duties. Once done, he and his recruits left the palace grounds. Now, months later, their search continued.

  Turning his attention back to the present, he fumbled at the grut whistle in his pocket. Always so close—she was always so close—but she was never close enough.

  He thought about the route he’d taken since leaving the palace. Despite traveling day and night whenever possible, practically sleeping in the saddle and eating on the run, Rowena always managed to stay one step ahead. She traveled with a single companion, her Oathtaker, Dixon. Together, the two were quick and shrewd, though recently Gadon had caught a sighting of them. His prey was heavy with child. His window of opportunity grew very short indeed.

  The flap of the tent opened and Simon entered. “You called for me?”

  For a time, the men studied their whereabouts, contemplating where their quarry headed, as they made their plans for the morrow.

  “Tomorrow, Simon. I feel it. Tomorrow we get her.” Gadon held the grut whistle in his fist. “Set up the round of watches and awaken me at first light.”

  With morning came a sun that beat down, promising a blistering day. Hurriedly, the men packed their foodstuffs, tents, and packs.

  “Let’s go,” Gadon ordered.

  The air became more humid as the day wore on. Waves of heat quivered in the distant air. Flies buzzed overhead, awaiting their opportunity to rest upon a sweat slicked body to feast.

  The men remained quiet; they had little to say. This was just one more day in an endless chase.

  Periodically Gadon called a halt to look for tracks in the grasses and shrubbery to the sides of the well-worn path. He surmised that Rowena and Dixon stayed off of it so that they could take cover more quickly if the need should arise. Occasionally, in their wake, they left broken twigs and flattened grass where they walked, or hoof prints where they rode.

  “Here . . . and here . . . and here. See that?” Gadon pointed out footprints in the sand. “And look here. They stopped for a time. This must be where they spent the night.” He scouted further. “Wait— What’s this? Blood? Hmmmm. Maybe. Looks like.” He touched the spot, then brought his fingers to his nose. “Smells like.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Heri!”

  A man stepped forward. His lack of discipline was evident in his slouched stature. His scraggly, thinning hair hung in his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said, smiling to reveal crooked, ill-kept teeth.

  “Ride ahead. Stay in line with that path.” Gadon pointed. “See there? As it enters the forest?”

  “Yes, sir.” Spittle hung from Heri’s lips.

  “Ride hard. If you see them, prepare to signal us. We’ll enter over there.” He showed the man his intentions. “We’ll catch up soon enough, so don’t try to take them alone. If you don’t see us within a few hours, then stop and wait.”

  Heri nodded his understanding, then rode off.

  As Gadon muddled over the tracks, he determined that this might be his best opportunity to take Rowena down. They were in an isolated place, and she was close. She had to have left her tracks late the previous night, after the rain had ceased.

  Yes, my patience has run out.

  He took the grut whistle from his pocket, placed it to his lips, and then blew.

  A shriek cut through the air. The men covered their ears to stop the excruciatingly painful sound.

  The ground burst open. Dirt and debris flew into the air. With a blast of wind as from the pits of the underworld, a pack of grut emerged, panting and screaming. Their tongues hung out and their eyes took in their surrounds. Their wiry hair stood on end.

  The explosion threw Gadon from his feet. He landed on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. He struggled to pull in a breath, then rolled over and onto his hands and knees. He stood, staggering and stumbling.

  Simon fell and hit the side of his head on a boulder. Blood ran down through his hair and muddied his eyes.

  Bruce, who’d stood on the very spot that opened to the grut, flew through the air. His arms and legs thrashed about. When he hit the ground, he was knocked unconscious. Blanketed in debris, he looked like a corpse in a shallow grave.

  The grut shot out toward the forest ahead.

  Another of the men, Petron, approached Bruce, brushed aside the dirt, then helped the youth to sit up. Bruce’s eyes were glossed over, one seemingly focused on the hole in the ground, while the other—his wandering eye—appeared to watch the grut streaking off into the distance.

  “There!” Gadon cried as the last of the grut entered the forest. “We’ll give them a head start, then follow, but not too closely.” He wiped at a stream of blood running down his face while he paced anxiously. A few minutes later, he turned and mounted.

  Just as the men prepared to move out, something whizzed above them. Gadon ducked, then looked behind. Again came the sound, this time to his left.

  “Under fire, sir!” Simon shouted.

  Gadon quickly dismounted, dropped into a ball, then rolled forward. He crouched behind a boulder. “Down, Petron, down! Bruce, damn it!”

  As the men sought cover, another arrow came in just over their heads.

 
Staying low and behind trees and boulders, they sought to determine the sniper’s whereabouts.

  A couple additional arrows flew overhead. Then, the shooting stopped.

  A few minutes passed. Then, as Gadon rose to his feet, the siege began again, this time from a new direction. One arrow pierced though his cloak at his shoulder, then continued down to the ground, lifting a tuft of grass before coming to rest. He dropped down.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shooting stopped again.

  He surveyed the forest line, but couldn’t make out any movement. “Anyone see anything?”

  “Negative,” Simon said.

  “I can’t tell where the shots are coming from,” Bruce quipped.

  “Idiot,” Gadon mumbled.

  Once again, after a few still minutes, the firing resumed, this time from yet another place at the forest edge. This went on several more times. Each interval brought only a few arrows. Finally, came a lull that lasted for some time.

  Gadon poked his head around the boulder that shielded him. He waved Simon forward. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “That there’s only one shooter and that it might be over? It’s been a while now since the last shots.”

  “Exactly. We’re losing time. The grut are already an hour and more ahead of us. I’ll make my way—there,” Gadon pointed. “Petron, that way,” he ordered, designating another spot.

  “I’ll stay here with the others to cover you,” Simon offered.

  As the men moved toward their designated destinations, the earth shook suddenly and violently. The trees swayed wildly. Bending with the wind, some snapped like twigs. Lightning burst in sudden, blinding blasts, and deafening thunder pounded. The sky turned a deep bloody red for a moment, then to a silvery, ashen gray.

  “Damn it,” Gadon cursed.

  CHAPTER THREE