The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 20

  The old shaman whispered soothing words to the girl. And a girl she was, for she could not be as old as Tarac.

  "Do you have a torch, boy?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Light it, quickly!"

  The necromancer fumbled flint and steel from a pouch at his side while Pjodarr pulled out his water skin. He offered it to the girl, but she only sobbed again. He knew she needed water because no tears fell as she cried. Her face was streaked with mud and blood, and he could not tell if the latter was all hers. He could heal her, but it would be more dangerous for her if she was dehydrated. Part of the magic relied on the body's ability to heal itself.

  "Drink, girl, you are safe. No one will hurt you here," he whispered in dvarid. Her eyes were closed tight as her body shook and spasmed. He needed her to be calm if he was to tend to her. The cold night and terror of what she’d witnessed worked against him. Finally orange light bathed them. He did not look; he simply reached his left hand back and called the fire to him. He breathed more life into it as it floated above his palm. "Bring wood!" he called back to Tarac.

  The boy was smart. Folik threw two large limbs down beside the girl almost as soon as the words left his mouth. Pjodarr briefly mused how useful such a creature must be. He threw the flames on the wood and caused them to blaze with a wave of his hand. The girl's shivering subsided as the warmth washed over her. He poured water over her lips. She gasped and licked them with a swollen tongue. He offered her the skin again and this time she drank. He quickly pulled it away, and she coughed. He let her drink a little more, then a little more after that. He did not want her taking too much at once.

  "I mean you no harm, dear. I must heal you." He pulled the cloak from her thin body to see the extent of her wounds. He shushed her as she cried out. She was naked but for a slave collar around her neck. A metal tag dangled from the thick leather. The old slave knew it held the crest of her master's family. Dried blood was smeared over her flesh, but she seemed to only suffer from a few scratches and some bruising. One of the scratches was deeper than the rest where the havtrols tore her clothes from her back. Pjodarr placed his hand over it and cast a spell. He pushed his will into the thin girl. Her breath caught as Fjur's gift flowed into her. Flesh mended and bruises lightened. At last she opened her eyes and looked up at the shaman. They were blue, with flecks of gold. Beautiful eyes that had seen things none should witness. The contact was brief, but he sensed some measure of relief from her. At least from her physical pain. He covered her again and leaned back.

  "Is she...alright?" Tarac seemed anxious. Pjodarr was proud of the boy. He'd been calm before and during the fight, and Folik was amazing. Stronger and quicker than any man the shaman had ever seen. The fight only lasted a few moments, and the necromancer had shown great efficiency. Master Blade would have been impressed. But Pjodarr still wondered about the nature of the boy's magic.

  "She's fine. Her wounds were minor. Now she just needs rest." He stood up. "And clothes. Could I trouble you to go back and find some? Search the cart. Make sure they're clean, please."

  "Of course, whatever we can do."

  Pjodarr looked at Folik. His left arm hung limp; the havtrol had almost ripped it from the socket. "Wait. Do you want me to see to Folik?" He thought for a second. "Can I see to Folik? Can he be healed?"

  "I can see to him," Tarac gave a small grin. "I'll need to do it where we fought though."

  Pjodarr was confused as he watched the boy go. He wondered if the folk of Durum Tai found Tarac so odd as well.

  The shaman focused on making the girl more comfortable again. He spread the snow away from her and the fire. He gave her more water and left the skin beside her. He was using his power to soften the ground beneath her when Gruesome joined them with Blade in tow. The havtrol's neck still bled. Pjodarr walked over to the warrior; he pressed his palm into Gruesome’s chest and removed the wounds. He went to his master. It appeared the dwarf's armor wasn't even touched. Pjodarr figured the havtrols would focus on Gruesome and he was right. He slapped his master's shoulders and smiled.

  "You win again, old goat," he whispered.

  Gruesome stood over the girl. “I left the var to feed. They will not touch the others, right?"

  "No, they will only eat the havtrols. I was clear with them."

  "Thank you, shaman." The big warrior nodded to him. "Your var saved me. But what did you do to the other one?"

  "The other one?"

  "The Honorless. How did you do that to his eyes?"

  Pjodarr gave the havtrol a wry smile. "That wasn't me, my friend. That was the boy."

  The warrior's dark eyes widened. "What did he do?"

  "I have no idea," the old man shook his head. "But it was quick. He and Folik killed two of them. It looked easy."

  "The girl will live?"

  "She will. She needs food and sleep right now, but I do not think she will take either readily."

  Gruesome knelt behind her. "I am sorry, girl." He placed one massive hand on her. She cringed and cried out. Her whole body shook in terror. The big havtrol pulled his hand away as if she burned him.

  "I do not think she is ready to be touched by one of your people just yet."

  The warrior nodded and stood. "I will leave her and retrieve your var's saddles."

  "Be careful, those other two are still out there," Pjodarr cautioned.

  "They will not stop running for some time. They will stay together, but we cannot tarry long."

  The shaman watched him go. How difficult the havtrol's life must be. His battle was never over.

  Tarac returned. Folik carried a large leather bag full of items. His left arm seemed back to normal. Or what passed for normal for a corpse.

  "I found many things on the cart. I think a woman would use them."

  "Set the bag by her." The necromancer pointed his fingers at the girl and Folik laid the bag behind her. Pjodarr finally realized that she was a human slave. He cursed himself for speaking dvarid to her earlier. It was too easy to slip into his native tongue after a battle. "She needs to be cleaned and dressed, but I do not think she wants a man to touch her right now."

  "I could have Folik-"

  The shaman silenced him with a raised hand. "Something tells me that would not be an improvement. We will make camp a bit away and give her privacy."

  "But what if they come back for her?" Tarac whispered.

  Pjodarr spread his arms and made a motion as if covering something with both hands. The trees closest to the girl bent to the earth, shrouding her in a veil of thick limbs. "You will be safe," he said loud enough for her to hear. "When you feel well enough for food, we will be close. I have left an opening for you. We hope you join us soon."

  He waved for Tarac to follow him. He took them far enough that they could still be heard as they talked and began making a fire.

  “Why don’t you just call one up?”

  “Call what up, boy?”

  “A fire,” Tarac said simply.

  “Just snap my fingers and conjure fire? Do I look like a wizard to you?” He raised the silver mask from his face and grinned at the necromancer through his tattoo-covered face.

  “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Tarac thought a moment. “But what you did back there, and with the campfire last night.”

  “That? Simple enough.” Pjodarr sat back and looked at the sky. “Through communion with Fjur, I can control all of his elements. I can affect the bodies of his children, and have a great bond with his beasts. He shares with us shamen all of his gifts save one. He will not let us create.”

  “Create?”

  “Wizards make fire and ice and wind and rock. But we have governance of these. A battle shaman will best a wizard any day.”

  “You are a battle shaman?”

  Pjodarr waved his hand. A fist of snow rose from the ground and hit Tarac in the stomach. He winked at the boy. “What do you think?”

  Gruesome joined them eventually. He sat silent
while Pjodarr melted snow in a pot.

  “Why do you go to such trouble tonight, shaman? We have dried meat.”

  “The girl needs hot food, therefore it is no trouble.”

  The warrior grunted. “You will see her safe?”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” He did not look at the havtrol. He knew what thoughts lay in the big brute’s mind.

  “We will lose them. More people will suffer.”

  “The two Honorless?” Tarac interjected.

  “Yes, they will move faster now. And they have eaten.”

  “But they are wounded.”

  “Pain does not matter to my people.”

  “No, good warrior, I mean they must be bleeding.”

  “And when the snow covers their blood?” Pjodarr knew the havtrol was losing patience with Tarac from his tone.

  “But I can still follow them!”

  The old warriors both looked at the necromancer. “You said you were not a good tracker.”

  “I’m not. Well, not in the sense of a hunter. Like you, I may not be able to create, but I can control.”

  “Control what, Tarac?”

  “Blood, of course. I told you before.”

  “The power of the blood…,” Pjodarr whispered under his breath. “You can control blood?”

  “Well, yes, like the Bloodguard. Surely you know of High Priest Hyrgdaal and his work?”

  “Tarac, how is this possible?”

  The boy thought for a moment. “Well, you have to….hmm, it is difficult to explain, I suppose. Took me years to learn, but I never had to teach anyone else.”

  “I don’t want to learn it, boy.” Pjodarr took a deep breath. “Tell me how you killed the havtrol back there, the one that was attacking Gruesome.”

  “Oh, well, I tried several things. But havtrols have thick muscles and flesh. So, I had to think of something else. Then it came to me!” The boy looked quite proud of himself. “I-,” he closed his fist sharply. “-pushed his blood to his head. It was too much, even for his thick skull!”

  Gruesome gaped at the necromancer. “You can do this?”

  “That and more, let me show you!”

  The warrior’s big hands went for his weapons. Tarac raised his hands and bowed his head. This time Folik did not make a move to defend his master. “Peace, friend Gruesome. I wish to show you an aspect of the power, not attack you. Did you strike the two that fled?”

  The havtrol relaxed somewhat. “One with hammer, one with axe.”

  “Excellent, have you cleaned your blade yet?”

  “Not yet, but soon.”

  “Show me, please.”

  Pjodarr watched with rapt attention as Gruesome pulled the axe from his hip. He pointed the double-bladed head at Tarac. The boy rose carefully and peered at its edge. He bent the tip of his staff to it, whispering words of power. Blue light spread over the two figures. The hair on the back of the shaman’s head stood on end as the night went silent. Tiny bits of dried blood flaked off the shiny steel. They followed the necromancer’s staff and floated in the air, then crashed together in a splash as the blood turned to liquid again.

  “Yes,” Tarac moaned, his voice husky. “He still lives.” He cast his big green eyes up to Gruesome. “And wherever he goes, the blood will follow.”

  The havtrol took two steps backwards. With great deliberation he returned the axe to the strap on his side. Eyes never leaving the young man’s face, he squat down on the ground. Then his eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. “So be it, boy.”

  For the first time in his life, Pjodarr found himself utterly speechless.