The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 18

  Gruesome clawed the earth. The cold ground did not give itself easily, but he did not need a big hole. The shaman would do the rest. The necromancer stood nearby, as silent as the abomination that followed him. The havtrol did not share Pjodarr's apparent tolerance of the boy and was thankful their paths were about to part. He stood and inspected his work. It would do.

  Pjodarr carried the small form wrapped in a blanket in both arms. Gruesome knew the slave's silver mask hid the tears. The slave was soft-hearted; his master’s mute existence was proof of that. But Gruesome understood. Though he did not have tears to shed for the little girl, he knew the shaman held her dear to his heart. The old man nodded his head at him as he approached.

  "Thank you, friend Gruesome. That does make it easier." Pjodarr stared at the shallow grave. The earth trembled slightly as the hole deepened and the walls became smooth. Piles of dirt grew around the edges. Once satisfied with his work, the shaman gently laid the girl in the ground. He stood and spread his arms wide. "Fjur, we offer you this gift," he said in dvarid. "Though her soul has left this vessel, we commend her body back to you, Great Giver. For it was with her actions that she showed the beauty of all life. From hands that crafted with care to a smile that gave joy to all, she was one of your true blessings. And for this we thank you, and return her to your embrace."

  With that, the old man slowly brought his hands to his chest. The dirt poured into the grave until only a perfectly smooth mound remained. Pjodarr stretched his left hand toward the village, and made a motion as if grasping something. The rounded white stones of a fire pit rolled and tumbled in a line then encircled the little girl's resting place. The shaman held his right hand over the grave and whispered to himself. Nothing stirred around them, but the slave's hand began to tremble. He stayed that way for some moments before finally making a fist. He lightly shook his hand, and then smiled at his master.

  "She liked daisies. Now they will forever grow over her, Master." The old dwarf just looked ahead, his mind unreadable to Gruesome. Did he even know the shaman's words?

  Tarac swallowed hard. "That was beautiful, Pjodarr." The havtrol was shocked to see tears flow freely down the conjurer's face. "Who was she?"

  Pjodarr stared at the girl's grave. "Just some much needed light in the darkest of times."

  Silence reigned in the early morning hours as they prepared to leave. The necromancer watched them pack the var, and Gruesome wondered why the boy just didn't leave them. Although sleep never came for any of them, the big warrior did not feel tired. Of course, a havtrol's stamina was legendary. A fully armored war pack could run for two days straight without rest if need be. But the boy and his undead pet had him on edge. His heart ached for the fates of the people of Willowbrook, but his duty came first. He was sworn to rid the land of his own people that had forsaken their oaths to the gods. They killed innocents, for sport. They partook of the flesh of havtrol, dwarf and man. They turned their backs on their honor and gave up all reasoning. He had to spill their blood to end their wretchedness.

  Pjodarr helped his master atop a var, and then turned to the boy. "I consider it an honor to meet you, Tarac. I wish you well in your journey and hope you find the answers you seek."

  The necromancer worked his fingers along the etchings in his staff. "I-umm," he trailed off, eyes on his feet. "I don't know exactly what to do now. I don't know where to go."

  The shaman fixed him with a stare. "You said the rest of the village might have left with the animals. Follow their trail."

  "I don't know how to do that," the boy blushed. "I am not a tracker."

  "It won't be hard to follow a couple hundred folk and their livestock, trust me." Pjodarr shook his head.

  "I was actually wondering," Tarac stopped and cleared his throat. "I was actually wondering if I could join you."

  "What?!" Gruesome growled.

  The shaman stared at the young man. "Join us? But your destiny lies elsewhere. Would you risk it all fighting a pack of savage havtrols with three old men?"

  "I have thought about it." Tarac raised his head and straightened his back. He looked the havtrol in the eyes, and then focused on Pjodarr. "I am not helpless. I have power. I could help you kill these Honorless. I could join you on your quest, then you could join me on mine."

  Gruesome growled.

  The old slave cocked his head. "And why would we do that?"

  "Because," he gestured to the girl's grave. "You cared for her. She was taken from you, and you want to know why. You have all shown me kindness, even if you do not approve of what I am." He nodded to the thing at his side. The havtrol felt his lip curl in a snarl. Tarac bowed his head to him. "Sometimes the kindest thing is to remain silent when all you have are harsh words. And I appreciate that, good warrior."

  Gruesome was taken aback. What manner of person was this boy?

  "It appears I have much to learn. I am lost in these lands. And, though I did not say it before, you have been the only folk to offer me simple conversation. I am alone, and I do not wish to be. Is that wrong of me?"

  "No, boy, of course not," Pjodarr said softly. "But I don't think you truly understand the danger of what we face. The Honorless are not like Gruesome. They won't have any words for you. They kill all but each other without question. And this group is larger than any we've seen before."

  "Some have taken the fall of the Great Mountain to mean their oaths to the gods are forfeit," Gruesome offered. "My people have tremendous rage in battle. But we save it for battle. These live with it always."

  Tarac's face hardened. It was almost a comical sight on the young man. "Then who's to say you don't need me? Folik and I have seen battle. We are not strangers to violence. And I share your desire to protect the weak from such as the Honorless. I also wish to never see a village like this one again." He waved his hand at Willowbrook. "Do you feel the same?"

  Gruesome looked at the quiet remains of the hunting village. They had visited it often. At first, the people were afraid of him and mistrustful of the dwarf. But the old slave had a way about him, and the folk of Wilowbrook had warmed to them. The villagers were simple and hard-working, like havtrols. They were not like the lazy humans of the big cities. They soon welcomed the three warriors, trading readily with them and sharing news from other travelers. The men marveled at his weapons and armor, and showed him great respect. The children wanted to ride his back more than they wanted to sit on the var! He had begun to look forward to visiting the village at every new moon.

  Sorrow darkened his heart. The boy was correct. It was not right what happened here. Gruesome growled low and met Tarac's eyes.

  "We do not promise your safety. Your people might call you High Priest, but that means nothing here."

  Pjodarr looked at the havtrol in shock.

  "You do whatever we say," Gruesome continued. He pointed a thick finger at the dead man. "And you keep that thing away from me. Whatever power you use to make the dead walk, will not touch me!" He cocked a thumb at the shaman and Blade. "Or them! If I feel for a moment that you cannot be trusted, I will rip you apart."

  Tarac gulped and nodded. "I wish no harm to any of you. Indeed, I will do all I can to protect you from it."

  Gruesome chuckled deep in his chest. "You think to protect me, little one?"

  "I thought you said all must answer to Drogu, Tarac?"

  "So, I did, good shaman." The necromancer lowered his head to Pjodarr. "But that does not mean that I would stand by while others would do harm. It is not the strength of another's arms that should decide our fate. Murder and violence are tools of other gods, or the choice of man. Drogu would have us pass peacefully into his realm."

  "I never heard that before."

  "My people believe that harmony is the providence of Drogu. Why would he wish unsettled souls in his care? Why would he wish a child such as this one," he waved to the ring of stones, "to come to him before their earthly purpose was fulfilled? I said what I said earlier becau
se I wished to ease your mind. As a shepherd of my people, I have learned that sometimes you must say things you don't necessarily believe to bring peace to others."

  Pjodarr paused. "So you think her soul 'unsettled'?"

  "You must have known her well enough, good shaman. Do you think she was ready to die, or did she still have the love and fire of life inside her?"

  The slave looked at his master. Gruesome wondered what went on behind the mask. Finally, the old man faced Tarac again. "I think I would show whoever killed her the wrath of Fjur's favorite son."

  "We have other business first." Gruesome hauled himself atop the female var.

  Pjodarr leapt onto the small male. "Have you ever ridden a var, friend Tarac?"

  The boy gritted his teeth in a forced smile.