by Kris Kramer
Chapter 8
The old man watched the full moon through the trees. Fjur’s night eye was high overhead, but Pjodarr knew sleep would not come to any of them tonight. The havtrol stared at the Folik creature with open disgust, his clawed hands never far from the hammer and axe at his sides. If the dead man made a move toward them, the shaman had no doubt it would be just a pile of bones again before it took two steps. Gruesome was stronger and faster than any being he’d seen in his long years. Well, long years for a human. He was a fraction of his master’s age and still twenty years the junior of the Beartooth warrior, but he felt every bit of his sixty-plus years.
He turned his attention to Master Blade, the quiet statue standing just inside the fire’s light. The dwarf’s one eye stared blankly ahead. What hell did I put you in, Master? The shaman thought of the kriote things and how Tarac had said they only attacked the dead. His master ate, drank, bled; why did they think him dead? Guilt crushed Pjodarr’s heart. Had he taken his oath too far? He missed his master, even though he hadn’t left his side in seventeen years.
He moved his thoughts from the dwarf. Only sadness grew there. But the boy…
The old slave eyed Tarac carefully. The necromancer hadn’t said a word in hours now. None of them had. The tension was thicker than flies on a dung heap, but what could be done? Gruesome’s honor would not allow him to simply murder the boy unless Tarac attacked them first. Pjodarr had no idea what the boy and his pet were capable of, and he had no intention of attacking them without knowing their abilities.
Tarac was young, unsure of himself. He had difficulty making eye contact and was afraid of unknowingly insulting Gruesome and Blade, yet he trafficked with the dead. Did he not think robbing graves upset anybody? Pjodarr knew nothing of Durum Tai and its people, save the stories told around fires at night. Any outsiders that sought the city out were skinned alive and raised from the dead to work the salt mines. The only evidence that the city existed were the caravans that brought their precious salt and the bitter winterberry wine loved by dwarves. No one dared travel to the city of the dead.
Still, the necromancer seemed polite enough, and Pjodarr certainly didn’t want Tarac suspecting he’d spent the past few hours thinking of ways to kill him. So, he figured he might as well make the boy feel more comfortable.
“You said you were a high priest, Tarac?”
The young man looked shocked that one of them spoke to him. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir’. I am only the servant of my master.” Tarac nodded with a small smile. “I asked because I wonder if all high priests are as young as you. You can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.”
“I just turned eighteen this year, good shaman. But no, it takes a long time for most to rise to the rank of High Priest. There are only twelve of us. I am considered a special case.”
“Aren’t we all,” Pjodarr gave the young man his most affable smile. To his satisfaction, Tarac returned it. “You are eighteen, so you were born in the year of the Century Star?”
“Yes, on the last night of its passing. The priests took it as a sign. I was raised to be a High Priest, taught everything about our people. I learned our entire history, from the time of the prophet Mephraim to High Priest Hyrgdaal, who discovered the power of the blood. I am practiced in all of our magic, not just soul-walking.” The necromancer talked as if Pjodarr had any idea of what he spoke. The old man decided to let him continue rambling and save his questions for later. “When I turned fifteen, I was raised to the rank of High Priest when good Dorid passed into Drogu’s arms. As customary, I walked him to the other side. It was my first time to do so.” Tarac stared into the fire. “I was so nervous, but he helped show me the way. Such a kind man; I’ll never forget his soul. It was beautiful.” A sad smile spread across his face; then he shook his head and looked at Pjodarr.
“Tarac,” the shaman said softly as he looked into the man’s eyes. They were wide and green. “Tell me about Folik.” Gruesome shifted in his seat, but Pjodarr held the necromancer’s gaze. “Ease an old man’s mind.”
“I am sorry; I know you people are not used to our guardians. But he is such a part of me that I forget how upsetting he might be to those that do not understand.” He took a deep breath then smiled again. “I raised him when I was eight, the youngest to ever do so. It was a test, to see if I might truly be the prophet reborn.” Another question for later. “Folik was a mighty Bloodguard. I remembered his story well from reading it a few years earlier. He was a true hero.” Tarac looked at the dead man with unmasked awe. “A group of children were picking winterberries in the vineyard, and Folik was there watching over them. One of them was his son, Dravel.” He turned back to the old man, his young face solemn. “Three trolls ran at them from the forest. Folik called for the children to run back to the city and threw himself between them and the monsters. How he fought off three full-grown trolls, no one knows. But when the other Bloodguards arrived, good Folik lay dead along with two of the trolls. They killed the last and carried Folik’s body back to the temple. The whole city celebrated him as a hero, and he was immediately named a future guardian. When it came time for me to choose, his was the only name that passed my lips.” He bowed his head. “I only hope to honor his mortal remains as his soul deserves.”
Pjodarr stared at him. “You mean you dug him up because he was your hero?” Gruesome grunted in disgust.
“What? No!” Tarac looked aghast. “What do you mean ‘dug up’?”
“Where did you get his body?”
“At his death, his body was embalmed and placed in the vault!”
“And what about his family?” The shaman felt his anger rise. “Why did they not get to see him to his final resting place?”
“Why would they go against his wishes?”
Pjodarr shook his head. “He wished to be-,” he waved his hand at the corpse standing by Tarac’s side. “-this?”
“Of course, all Bloodguard do!” The necromancer was incredulous. “It is the goal of all Bloodguard to become a guardian for a High Priest. It is a great honor for them and their family. That is why it is only given to those who perform extraordinary feats.”
“This is a reward?” Gruesome was shocked. Pjodarr was almost as shocked to hear the havtrol speak.
“Of course. It was only in the War of the Free that the priests raised the dead to fight the dwarves. Then it was proclaimed that only High Priests could raise a guardian, and they could only raise those that gave their remains willingly. It is custom to wait several decades to raise them.” Tarac raised a finger as if he talked to children. “Some souls linger longer than others, and we do not want to take any chances.”
The old slave sat in disbelief. The boy spoke as if this were completely normal. As if they should all have been aware of the rules for raising the dead. In the face of such madness what could you do?
Pjodarr laughed. He laughed heartily, such as he had not in seventeen years. He did not care if Gruesome and Tarac stared at him, for the absurdity was too comical for him to hold it in.
The havtrol growled. “What is wrong with you, shaman?”
The slave patted himself on the chest and tried to regain his composure. “Nothing, mighty Gruesome.” He pointed at Folik. “I just don’t know if we should build him a pyre, or give him a medal!” None of the others shared his mirth.
“A pyre would not be appropriate. We bury our dead; we do not burn them.” Tarac’s tone was almost chiding. Pjodarr feared he had upset the nice boy.
“I’m sorry, friend Tarac. I meant no disrespect. It is simply that you have no idea how odd you are to us.” The necromancer looked hurt, and shied from the shaman’s gaze. “I do not mean that as an insult, son, but none of us have ever met anyone like you. Or Folik, for that matter. And that is saying a lot. Master Blade is over three hundred years old and has never met one of your folk. The only things the other Bergsbor know of Durum Tai is that you trade salt cheaply, brew the bitterest win
e in all the lands to the delight of dwarves everywhere, and no army that marched against you has ever returned.”
Tarac’s eyes went wider than the full moon above. “That is true. We shut ourselves off to keep the dwarves from attacking us. The prophet Mephraim decided that they would not bother us if we did not bother them. And so it was. We were not threatened again until Freemark attacked us.” The fire danced in his bright green eyes. “By then, we’d learned the power of the blood.”
There it was again. Power of the blood? Pjodarr had heard rumors. Among the undead that walked Durum Tai, were creatures that drank the blood of their victims. Could they be the Bloodguard that Tarac mentioned? He could talk to the boy for a fortnight and not exhaust his own curiosity, but Gruesome had business to attend. The great warrior was bound by oath to kill the Honorless, only their blood would cleanse his. Pjodarr knew the havtrol was anxious to be on the hunt.
“You are fascinating, Tarac.” The shaman stretched his back and legs. “But dawn comes soon, and we’ve more immediate things to discuss.”
The young man nodded.
“First, how did you come to Willowbrook at this time?”
“Willowbrook, good shaman?”
Pjodarr gestured at the huts around them. “This village. How is it you are here? And all these people are dead?”
“Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with this!” Pjodarr saw the hurt in the boy’s eyes, and felt a pang of guilt. “I would never harm a child. I have only committed violence in defense of myself.” He pointed at Blade. “Or others.”
“I did not say that. But these are odd circumstances, aren’t they?”
“Indeed.” Gruesome’s deep voice dripped with menace.
The necromancer looked from one to the other; his eyes settled on the fire. “I am on a pilgrimage, of sorts. My birth was deemed a sign. Then the Great City fell, and the world was plunged into war. It was decided that I would be trained and sent here, to the southern continent. With only Folik to accompany me, I was my own guide.” He blushed and gave a weak smile. “Once I arrived at Blackgate to the north, I kept to the river.”
“Why did you choose Blackgate? Why not the human cities? It must have been a treacherous journey east to the dwarf ports.”
“It was,” Tarac nodded. “But I wanted to see it.”
Pjodarr smiled bitterly. “It was beautiful. The greatest city the world has ever known, all carved stone and worked gold. A monument to the gods that slept beneath it.” He shook his head. “Now it is nothing but ash and the smoldered wreckage of nobility.”
“Yes,” Tarac agreed. “The Great Mountain still belches black smoke into the air. Words cannot describe it.” They all sat silent for a moment before he continued. “Besides, I was told that dwarves are less troublesome to deal with than the free cities. ‘Be nice, and pay with gold,’ they told me.”
“My master’s people do like to keep things simple. But why are you here? In all of Caldera, why Willowbrook?”
The young man wrung his hands and bit his lower lip. “I-I do not know exactly. I was drawn here.” He finally looked up at the old man. “And not just here. There was another village to the west.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found it, just like this one. Everyone that died was killed in their sleep.”
Pjodarr leaned forward. He thought he knew the little village Tarac talked about, just on the edge of Brinnoch. “Everyone that died?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. You have seen very little of what happened here.” He clasped his hands against his chest and bowed his head. “Only the very old and very young were killed. The rest are simply… gone. Men, women, older children, all gone, and the livestock taken too. Only the dead and the kriotes remained.” He frowned. “And the smell of dark magic.”
“You think these people killed their own and left with their animals?” Villages in the forest didn’t keep more than a few chickens and goats for eggs and milk. They relied on hunting and foraging to survive. But why would they kill their elders, their own children? The little girl’s angelic face filled the shaman’s thoughts and he swallowed hard.
“No, good shaman, that doesn’t seem reasonable at all. I have nothing but suspicions right now. And remorse.”
“Remorse for what, necromancer?”
Tarac sighed and seemed to take no notice of Gruesome’s accusation. “For the souls of these dear people. I fear what happens when the kriote have their way with them. I walked at the other village, and saw them as they fed.” He shuddered. “It was horrifying.” He grabbed a water skin from his belt and took a long draught. “I followed them here. I arrived a while before you all. I did not need to watch while they fed. Then I destroyed them all when they attacked your master.” He looked at Pjodarr with sad eyes. “I’m not sure what to do now.”
The old slave felt sympathy for the odd boy. “This is your destiny, Tarac? You think you were sent here to avenge these good people?”
“Avenge? I do not know about that. I would not know how to begin to avenge them. But I believe I was sent to discover what happened to them.” He pursed his lips. “I have had dreams in this land. They have guided me here. They have led me to this place, at this time. Perhaps I am meant to meet you.”
Gruesome grunted and Pjodarr chuckled. “I cannot imagine what answers you hope to find from three old warriors. We know less about what happened here than you.” He looked over at the havtrol. “And we have matters of our own.”
“What could be more important than discovering the fate of the ones that left here?”
“We are hunters,” Gruesome rumbled.
“Yes, I saw the wyverns on your var.”
“No, necromancer, we hunt a much more dangerous prey. The Honorless have come here from the mountains. They will kill everything in their path.”
“Honorless?” Tarac cocked his head at the big warrior.
Pjodarr cleared his throat. “Havtrols who have forsaken their oaths. Gruesome is sworn to spill their blood. Master Blade and I have promised to help him. We tracked them here, then they went north. We are within a day or so of them. If we do not catch them, who knows what carnage they will unleash. There are other settlements, more innocents.”
“And they are in danger of this as well!” Tarac motioned around them. “Would these Honorless destroy an entire village?”
Gruesome jumped to his feet. Folik raised his sword in defense. “Nine havtrol warriors that did not hold themselves to honorable combat would lay waste to this village. They would commit horrors you cannot imagine!”
“Yet the three of you would face them? Where three hundred souls would die, you would not?” The young man looked from the havtrol to the shaman.
Pjodarr smiled and winked at Tarac. The fire flashed and a man of flame stood before the boy. Tarac fumbled backwards, grasping for his staff. Folik took one quick step and slashed through the fiery figure. His sword passed through the flames harmlessly. The old shaman waved his hand and the fire crackled and popped as if it had never changed. The necromancer held his hand up and the dead man relaxed his stance.
“You’re not the only one with tricks, boy.”
Andua
