The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 7

  “This is my guardian, Folik, please forgive his silence. He is not rude; he simply has no tongue to be able to speak.”

  Gruesome and Pjodarr stared at the young man. Never had the havtrol witnessed such magic as this Tarac performed. And now he spoke to them as if they were simply travelers meeting in the commons of some great hall.

  “I am Pjodarr,” the shaman returned in norovid, never at a loss for words, although his usual greeting was far more blustering. “Yon is my master Blade of House Thurin, General of the First Army, Lord of Northwatch. This is Gruesome,” he waved his shaking left hand in the big brute’s direction. “Mighty warrior of Clan Beartooth.”

  “Ah, I see the helm,” Tarac said gleefully. “How remarkable.” He bowed low, Folik doing the same. “T’would seem I am in honored company. I beg your forgiveness beforehand, but I am not experienced with the customs of dwarf and havtrol. We have traveled most of this way alone, following the river.”

  “Yes, well, would you mind if we get ourselves somewhat settled then, sir Tarac? I would see to all of our wounds.”

  “Oh, you are a shaman! How delightful! Of course, tend to your companions. Folik and I will await you here.”

  With a grimace, Pjodarr spoke soft words. His body shook as white magic flowed out from him. He sighed in relief and shook his now-healed hands, then rubbed them together. He walked over to where Gruesome still knelt on the ground and placed both hands on the havtrol’s thick chest. With more ease he cast the spell that sent a wave of healing magic through the warrior’s body. Gruesome felt the sting of mending flesh as the cut on his hand closed and the small burns under his armor washed away under the shaman’s spell. The slave shared an odd stare with the havtrol before moving on to Blade.

  “Master,” he soothed and helped the dwarf to his feet. “Let us see how you fare.” He walked Blade behind the hut that held the old woman’s corpse.

  “Is there a problem?” Tarac’s face showed real concern.

  “He lets no one see his master out of his armor,” Gruesome rumbled.

  The pair returned shortly. “Not a mark on him,” the shaman said quizzically, in the language of dwarves.

  “I would suspect as much,” the young sorcerer said, again using norovid.

  “You speak dvarid?” Pjodarr asked in the human tongue.

  “Speak, no. Understand, some. I read it better.”

  “And trolvid?” The shaman inquired, somewhat bemused.

  Tarac bowed to Gruesome. “Alas, no. My people have no dealing with your own. So there was no one to teach me.”

  The havtrol merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, perhaps, we would all be content with using norovid, then, Tarac.” Pjodarr bowed his own head to the much younger man.

  “I would greatly appreciate that, and again apologize for the inconvenience.”

  The wizard’s politeness was…unnerving…to Gruesome. He’d met with all manner of folk, from lowly slave to noble king, and none displayed such bizarre manners. The shaman was better at dealing with people, so he decided to hold his tongue. Pjodarr walked to another hut and pulled back the flap. He stared for a moment, then stepped back and moved the silver mask to the top of his head. He looked at the havtrol with sad eyes, his tattooed face unreadable in the dark.

  “They are all dead, good shaman. All those that remain here, anyways.”

  The old slave nodded slowly. “Gruesome, would you mind starting a fire for us while I retrieve the var?” He then walked further into the village, and the warrior knew what hut he sought. With his stomach in knots, Gruesome drew flint and steel and bent over a large circle of stones set amid several of the huts. Central fire pits like this were set throughout the village to be lit in the coldest parts of winter.

  It was quite a while before Pjodarr returned with the var. He’d taken his time putting the kits back on them. Gruesome knew why. Humans and dwarves went to great lengths to hide their grief and fear from others, where havtrols celebrated their emotions. Not that a havtrol knew fear. But rage at your enemies, joy at the birth of your son, sadness at the loss of a loved one, these were what defined each soul. Sadness. This thought brought emptiness to Gruesome. Sadness filled him now. For the past five years. Sadness for his own actions. But his honor would be reborn.

  The five sat quiet around the fire for some time. Well, three sat. Folik and Blade both stood, as if on guard.

  “Have you eaten?” Pjodarr asked solemnly.

  “Not since yesterday.” Tarac shrugged. “I am not the best hunter.”

  “We will all eat, and talk. I’m sure we all have questions.” The shaman then busied himself preparing a stew of the tough wyvern meat he’d dried out.

  They ate in silence. Blade shoveled deliberate spoonfuls of the awful stew into his mouth, and then dropped the spoon and bowl to the ground. He drank deep from a water skin when Pjodarr offered it to him. Folik took no sustenance, nor did Tarac offer him any. Gruesome and the slave exchanged glances at this, but said nothing. Finally, the shaman leaned his back against a large stump and fixed his cool, gray eyes on the young wizard.

  “What happened here, Tarac? Who killed these people?”

  “I-I cannot say,” the sorcerer shrugged. He sat with his hands clasped over his belly. Gruesome had time to study the man more during their meal. The boy, for he was truly more boy than man, was tall for his age. But his face gave it away: innocent eyes, energetic smile, and the smooth skin of the privileged. His clothes were of deep purple, plain but finely woven. His thick, black cloak was lined with dark fur. His leather boots were dyed the same purple and also lined with fur, and as well-cared for as the rest of his attire. He wore no charms or trinkets, as most wizards were apt to do. Even Pjodarr had a necklace of small skulls and other items under his armor. The wizard’s staff was another matter. It was of ornately carved wood, painted such a deep black that it looked to be the natural color. The crystal skull on top was unremarkable; the moonlight did not even shine off it. But Gruesome remembered the soft glow from before, and Tarac kept the staff close at hand at all times.

  “Do you not know, or do not wish to tell?”

  “Oh, I do not know at all, good shaman,” Tarac stammered. “I only know that no one living was left here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was searching the other side of the village when you all arrived. I went through many of the other huts.” He shifted his wide eyes to the ground and scraped at something with his foot. “I went through more than enough of them.”

  Pjodarr’s eyes never left Tarac’s face. Gruesome watched the shaman intently, and wondered what worked in the man’s mind. Havtrols never shared humans’ curiosity.

  “Were they all killed the same? A single blade through the heart?”

  Tarac nodded. “They went peacefully, in their sleep, at least.”

  “Small consolation for a young life cut short by murder.” Masked grief tinted his words.

  “When Drogu calls, all must answer.” The death god. Gruesome’s chest tightened. He met the shaman’s eyes. Pjodarr leaned forward.

  “Where are you and Folik from, Tarac?”

  The boy raised his head to meet the old man’s gaze. “I am Tarac, High Priest of Drogu, and Shepherd of the Souls of Durum Tai.”

  Durum Tai! City of the dead!

  Gruesome rose slowly to his feet and pointed his finger at Folik. “What is that thing, boy?” The armored figure stepped between Tarac and the havtrol, sword held up. Gruesome’s hands caressed the hammer and axe at his hips.

  Tarac held out his left palm. “Peace, good warrior, we wish no fight.” Gruesome growled. “Folik is my guardian. He will only fight to protect me.” The sorcerer stood up and exchanged long looks with both the havtrol and the shaman. Only Pjodarr remained seated. “It was only for that purpose that I raised him.”

  The old slave hissed and spat into the fire. Gruesome’s body tensed. Necromancer. Folik was a walking c
orpse, obeying the unnatural commands of its evil master. All of the big warrior’s misgivings about the young man were more than founded.

  “Gruesome,” the shaman said calmly. “Please sit. I’m sure young Tarac here means us no harm. Or else why break bread with us? Why save Master Blade from those…things?” He heard the wisdom of Pjodarr’s words, but this necromancer…

  He gritted his teeth and choked down his bitter disgust, and slowly lowered himself to his haunches. The undead abomination relaxed slightly, but stood even closer to its master. The necromancer stood still, eyes to the ground.

  “Please, Tarac, sit. I’m sure we can all be reasonable here, now can’t we?”

  “Of course,” the boy’s voice was barely a whisper. He returned to his seat, his head down and back straight. He gripped his staff tightly.

  “Thank you, by the way, for saving my master. I have no idea what we would have done.” Tarac raised his head to look at the shaman and gave him a meek smile. “Which raises more questions. What were those things, and what did you do to them?”

  “Hmm,” the necromancer thought. “Well, while I’ve never seen them before today, they reminded me of the little creatures from the legends. Kriote…soul scavengers. I saw them feeding on some of the dead here, so I’m sure that’s what they were. Why they attacked your friend-“

  “Master,” Pjodarr corrected him.

  “Hmm?”

  “He is my master, I am his servant. It would be improper for you to call him my friend to others.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. We do not have slaves in Durum Tai.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would. Now what do you mean by legends? And soul scavengers?”

  “Well, the legends of the Hungry Gods, of course.” Gruesome and Pjodarr stared at him, confused. “You do not know the legends of the Hungry Gods?” They both shook their heads. “I see. Well, long ago the Hungry Gods came from the depths of hell to steal-”

  Pjodarr interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “Tarac, Tarac, hold on. Let’s do one thing at a time here. Tell us about the soul scavengers first. What are they?”

  The necromancer shrugged. “Just that. They are soul scavengers. They feed on the dead as their souls make the journey to the other side.”

  What skin was visible on the shaman’s face went pale. “Why would they attack my master?”

  Tarac shrugged again and stared at Blade for a moment. “That is a mystery to me as well. According to the legends, if they find a fresh corpse, they can drain the soul from it like that!” He snapped his fingers. “But nothing in the tales told of them attacking the living. That’s why I had to help your frie-…master.”

  “Yes, that. What did you do to them?”

  The conjuror beamed. “Quite clever, if I do say so myself. I did not even know if it would work!” He leaned forward with eager eyes. Gruesome found himself crouching forward as well. “I made an aura of my own energy, and shaped it into a soul. A strong soul. Once they surrounded me, I lifted it above their heads, just out of reach to hold them in place.” He spread his palms to the sky. “Then I killed them.” He leaned back. “Mindless beasts do not take precedence over living souls. So, I was obligated to save the good dwarf.”

  The shaman gaped at the young man. “Amazing.”

  “Oh, not really. High Priest Brodjak has done much more amazing things. He is incredibly old and wise.”

  “Why are you here, Tarac?” The shaman’s words came out with deliberate slowness. The younger man’s face turned red and he averted his eyes from the slave’s.

  “Destiny, good shaman. Why are any of us here?”