by Kris Kramer
Chapter 26
Pjodarr spread a thick blanket over the girl, not knowing if she slept or not. Her eyes remained closed. She was a very beautiful young woman. She had the fine features of the Bergsbor, but blonde hair like most of the Grunlanders. She was probably enslaved with her family when the men of Freemark invaded. The dwarves and freemen took many slaves. Freemen. The shaman held back a chuckle at the thought. The lords of Freemark were far more likely to take slaves than the Great Houses. And they were more barbarous than any dwarf ever thought to be. A pretty girl like Erliga? He could only imagine how she was treated. He hoped she felt well enough to talk in the morning. There were many things he needed to ask her.
If the Honorless had any compassion in their hearts, it was that they didn’t leave survivors. They did not give Erliga even that little charity.
He turned around and regarded Gruesome and the boy. They sat quietly on opposite sides of the fire. Pjodarr’s master stood just within the fire’s warmth, and would for the entire night. The old slave had grown used to Blade standing silent guard. Folik was behind Tarac’s right shoulder, as if in mock exaggeration of the dwarf’s condition. But Pjodarr knew his master was not dead. He sighed to himself and willed sad thoughts away. He walked towards the var and waved the havtrol and necromancer to join him. Gruesome rose without issue. Tarac looked at both of them then followed with some hesitation. The shaman took them out of earshot of the girl, but still kept his voice low.
“Well, I never planned on this.”
Gruesome nodded.
“Planned on what?” Tarac was confused.
“The girl. Why they kept her alive is beyond me, but they did.” He set his gaze on the big warrior. “And now we have to make sure she’s taken care of.”
“We cannot leave the other two, shaman.”
Pjodarr bowed to Gruesome. “I know, friend, but we have a duty to get her back to her family.”
“And if her master died with the others? Will the boy claim her?” They both looked at Tarac. The necromancer’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Claim her? But no High Priest has ever taken a wife! And who knows if she would even have me?”
The old shaman stared at him. “Wife? What in Drogu’s name are you talking about, son?”
“But you said-,”
Pjodarr placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not claim her for wife. Claim her as your slave.”
Tarac’s face showed an odd mix of relief and confusion. “Oh, well, that would be impossible. We do not have slaves.”
“I understand. Neither do havtrols.” Pjodarr cocked a thumb at Gruesome. “I, of course, am not allowed to take a slave, and dwarves only take what they need to run their households. Since my master no longer has a house, I am all he needs.”
“What do we do then, shaman? We cannot leave her out here alone. And who knows what villages are left near to us?”
The havtrol was right. It would all be made easier if they could find another group of humans or dwarves. They could leave Erliga with them, and she would be returned to her rightful lord’s home. However, if her lord died to the Honorless, Blade or Tarac could claim her by law because they defeated her captors. Pjodarr rubbed his neck and sighed. The humans’ form of slavery was such a tricky business. At least dwarves kept it simple. Unless sold, a slave belonged to his master until he or his master died. Given that dwarves outlived humans by a century or more, it was rarely a topic for debate. Havtrols, of course, found the notion of having anyone perform any task for them preposterous. Their women maintained fierce households. Any female that bore children was responsible for the welfare of their village. While the bulls hunted or, more often as not, fought, the cows worked the small farms and fished. One out of ten females was barren. While this placed them in positions of lesser respect than the mothers, they still had vital roles within the clan. They would be blacksmiths, boat builders and any other craftsman needed. Havtrols did not believe in laziness.
“She must come with us for now. We’ll keep her by Master Blade. He will protect her while we deal with those other two. Then we’ll have to find out who her master is and return her.”
“If her master is dead, couldn’t we just free her?” The boy’s face was so innocent. Pjodarr was struck by how someone so powerful could be so naïve. Tarac raised a dead man from the grave when he was a boy, but had no idea how dark the world truly was.
“Where would she go, boy? What would she do? A slave has no family. A young girl like her probably has no skills to make her way, save the one her master probably uses her for now.”
The necromancer frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s a pretty little thing, Tarac. I’ve spent a good bit of time in Freemark with my family and rarely did I see a pretty girl cooking or cleaning. They are generally saved for…other things.”
Tarac pursed his lips in thought. Then his eyes went wide and his face turned bright red. “Oh, my, I had no idea. That’s quite horrendous, isn’t it?” Now it was Pjodarr’s turn to be confused. A practitioner of blood magic disgusted by something?
“I have found that humans do not hold honor as dearly as the rest of us, necromancer.”
The boy shot Gruesome a look. “I know you do not approve of me for some reason, but I wish you would not call me that!” His voice was almost a hiss.
“You consort with the dead. You are what you are.”
“I do not! I honor the remains of a great hero! His soul passed long ago, and I do not ask anything of Folik the flesh to which Folik the man would not have agreed! It was your people that ate human flesh and raped women!”
“They were not my people!” Gruesome roared at the boy and towered over him. To his credit, the boy did not flinch, although Folik suddenly had hand on sword. “They were Honorless! Havtrol no more! They broke covenant and gave their souls to the abyss. Their bodies will return to dust, and no one will sing their songs! Their names will be stricken from our hearts and they will have never existed!”
Pjodarr moved between the two, but he had no idea what he would do if they came to blows. Tarac drew himself to his full height and the shaman was keenly aware of just how much smaller he was than either of them.
“No High Priest has ever broken their sacred vows. We spend our lives praying for the souls of our flock, and we honor the chosen by raising their bodies. They protect us, and are revered by the people. When you call me necromancer, you blaspheme the memory of this great man.” He waved his hand to Folik. The dead man dropped his arms to his sides and stood still. “While I do not care what you think of me, I will not have you insult his honor.” The young man lifted his chin and regarded the havtrol coolly. “Quite frankly, for one that speaks of honor, you do your own ill justice when you cast aspersions on us both because our culture is different than yours. My people find slavery detestable, but I refuse to think poorly of good Pjodarr and his master until they give me reason. Have I given you reason to hate me, good warrior?”
Gruesome looked like he’d been slapped. The anger left his face, and his lower jaw jutted out in serious contemplation. Finally, he met the boy’s eyes again. His massive head bowed.
“I cannot say you have. I have wronged you, little man. What would you have of me?” Pjodarr was shocked. Havtrols did not ask this question in such a manner lightly. He doubted Tarac understood the significance.
The young man smiled. “I would only ask your respect, that you call me Tarac. Or priest.” He moved the staff to his left hand and offered his right to the warrior. “And the hope that we might try to become friends. I apologize to you for misinterpreting the Honorless. It seems we both have much to learn.”
Gruesome’s thick paw covered the boy’s forearm. “And what would you have me call him?”
“Folik, if you must.”
The havtrol bowed to the dead man. “I am sorry, Folik.” Tarac laughed as they ended their grasp.
“It’s not necessary to speak to him, though. He cannot hear you, as suc
h.”
Pjodarr was impressed by the younger man’s ability to defuse the warrior’s rage. “What do you mean, Tarac?”
The young man’s smile softened. “Nothing of the man Folik was remains in his body, save a shadow of the warrior. My will sustains him.”
“Your will?”
“Yes, all of his actions are guided by my thoughts.”
“You mean you learned how to use a sword as well?”
“Oh, no,” the boy chuckled. “Like I said, that is the warrior’s shadow.” When both Gruesome and Pjodarr stared at him, he continued. “Well, Gruesome, when you fight, do you have to tell your arm how to swing your hammer, your legs how to avoid your opponent’s blow?”
“No, we train at an early age to fight.”
“Like all great warriors, you trained your body to react. The Bloodguard are the best of our people.” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Simply enough, the body remembers. At least it remembers enough. Folik is not capable of any real strategy, but he will swing his sword to kill. And I can command him with a thought to do other things because his body is infused with my will.”
The shaman reached a hand out and touched Folik’s arm. “By all the gods, that is astounding…” He looked at Tarac. “So you could put your will into anything? I can shape the elements into man-shapes, but it is only for a short time. Wizards are better at it, but their constructs do not last either.”
“No, it only works on the flesh of the dead. Priests have tried in the past with no success. And the guardians only came about after the power of the blood was discovered.”
“Is that how you healed his arm?”
“Hmm,” the young man thought. “Of sorts. I can heal myself with the blood of others, but only the blood of the dead can heal Folik.”
Gruesome eyed him. “You healed him with blood?”
“Yes, from one of the havtrols.” Tarac bowed his head to the warrior. “I would never use the blood of an innocent.”
Pjodarr grinned in amazement. The boy was right; they all had much to learn. “And you can track the one with its own blood?”
“Yes, as long as he lives.”
“It was not a mortal wound. Havtrols are incredibly hard to kill.” The shaman nodded at Gruesome. “They are resistant to disease and poison, and heal much quicker than humans or dwarves. Your best bet is massive amounts of violence.” He turned his gaze toward the firelight and clenched his fist. “If only my master had his senses. He would have called the thunder down on them, and we would not have to deal with this.”
“He is what they call a Warshield, yes? I have seen him use the lightning.”
“Aaah, boy, he was so much more.” Pjodarr closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Is. He is so much more, the finest of his House.”
“What ails your master, good shaman? Why does he not speak?”
Gruesome turned his attention to the old man as well. The great havtrol never asked about his master, and never would, but Pjodarr knew he had to wonder about the general. The former clan chief knew Master Blade before the Great City fell. He knew the warrior the dwarf had been. The shaman was torn. It had been so long since he’d shared his burden with anyone else. But how could he betray the honor of his master? How could he expose a weakness that he did not even understand himself? He shook his head.
“Nothing ails him, Tarac. His body is as strong as it ever was. Please, excuse the ramblings of an old man.” He turned his back to them and walked toward the camp. “We will head out as soon as the girl is able tomorrow. I suggest we all get some rest for now.”
