For a moment, Moc’Tor stood watching before stepping over the carnage. “Remove this garbage,” he ordered Dochrohan.
Then he turned back to face the rest of the rebellious band. “Because of Warnak’s foolishness, the severity of your punishment has just been increased. Dochrohan, have your guards give them a few moments to collect their Keeping Stones, then escort them out of Kthama.”
Turning to the rebels, Moc’Tor growled, “I do not know what awaits you out there, but you can see what waits for you here should you be stupid enough to return.” He glanced first at Norcab’s lifeless husk and then at Warnak’s. “Dochrohan, you and your guards listen carefully. If any of them returns, kill him on sight and hang his body near the entrance to rot, a reminder for the rest of you who think they can defy me or threaten my family.”
Choking down tears, E’ranale turned away from the gore. She knew Warnak’s mother well, and her heart broke for the female who would soon learn that her oldest offling had paid the ultimate price for his poor choice in alliances. She knew that Moc’Tor had done what must be done, but it sickened her that it had come to this. She wanted to run from the room but steeled herself to wait for Moc’Tor as anything less would be seen as a lack of support for his actions.
Her mate came over to her, pressed his hand against the small of her back, and guided her from the room.
“Be strong,” he said as they continued on to their quarters. “You are staying with me tonight. And every night for the foreseeable future.”
Once alone, E’ranale broke down. Moc’Tor wanted to pull her to him, but he was still covered in blood.
“Lie down and relax. I will be back once I have cleaned up.”
Moc’Tor stepped into the private area before realizing exactly how bloody he was. Though reluctant to leave her, he went to clean himself up in the males’ bathing area.
“No good choices,” he muttered as he dipped into the water, hating it and knowing it would take hours for him to dry. When he was finished, he squeezed as much of the water as possible from his coat.
He returned damp but clean to find E’ranale curled up on her side, fast asleep. For once, he regretted his prohibition against fire inside Kthama. He longed to sit outside to dry next to one of Drit’s raging, evening fires but could not leave E’ranale alone. He stretched out alongside her, hoping she would somehow feel his presence.
Sometime in the middle of the night, E’ranale sat up with a start, twisting wildly about as if fighting someone. Moc’Tor sat up immediately and gently grabbed her flailing arms.
“E’ranale, wake up. Wake up; I am right here. It is only a dream.”
E’ranale looked at Moc’Tor hazily, then flung her arms around his damp neck and sobbed. He held her tight against him as her tears released some of the horrors she had witnessed earlier.
“I know E’ranale, it was terrible, but you know there was no other way.”
E’ranale’s tears leaked more wetness into Moc’Tor’s heavy silver coat. She squeezed her eyes closed and clung to him tighter, trying to shut out the images of the crumpled and mangled bodies lying on the rock floor. “I have never seen such blood and gore. And I cannot stop thinking of Warnak’s mother. Every time she passes down the corridor— We will never get the stain out, Moc’Tor.”
“E’ranale, I do not want the stain out. It must stay as a reminder to others who may think to challenge my authority.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Those I banished? They will live a life of struggle and hardship unless they find another community to take them in. But that is doubtful. Few Leaders would take on young males in the prime of their drives who have been ejected from their own people. Banishment is one of the worst punishments we can impose. If they are wise, they will try to return.”
“But I thought you said that if they return, they are to be killed on sight?”
“Yes. Exactly. A quick death would be better than the slow, agonizing death awaiting them in banishment.”
Chapter 3
Time had passed. Moc’Tor’s son, Dak’Tor, threw his first spear, impaling the target perfectly. The Guardian retrieved the weapon and handed it back to the offling. “Again.”
“I am tired, Father.”
“It does not matter. Set your physical body aside. A warrior who nurses his weaknesses will never build his strengths. Now, again.”
E’ranale and Oragur approached the two. Without turning, Moc’Tor guessed the content of the message they were bringing.
“Another deadborn?”
It was Oragur who spoke. “Yes. Unfortunately.”
“There are now more born dead than alive, and some of those who live seem to be sick or unstable. Starting with Trestle,” sighed the Leader.
“Trestle is nearly full-grown, and his mind is still that of an offling,” agreed E’ranale.
Moc’Tor closed his eyes and gave thanks for the health of his own offling and said a prayer for E’ranale’s belly, once again swollen. So many others were not as fortunate.
“The females are saying the male’s seed is ruined, poisoned. They are heartbroken and angry,” said Oragur.
Moc’Tor stopped and took the spear from his son’s hand. Placing his other hand on Dak’Tor’s head, he said, “Alright, that is enough for today. Go and find your sisters and cousins.”
He watched the offling scamper off. “Something has to change. We have to change.”
“What are you thinking, Moc’Tor?” asked E’ranale.
As he spoke, Moc’Tor put his hand on her belly, and she placed her hands over his, resting them there. “It is time for the Leaders and what is left of the other communities to come together. We cannot solve this problem in isolation. Perhaps, if we combine our efforts, we can come up with a solution. We cannot stand by and let our people pass from Etera.”
Moc’Tor sent messengers up and down the Mother Stream and into the far reaches of the outer regions. The words were simple, “Leaders and Healers, come to Kthama at the next full moon. We must join together, or all will be lost.”
As the time passed, he readied Kthama for what he hoped would be a large assembly. Somehow, the excitement of something different breathed new life into his community. He knew they needed hope. If he could give them nothing else, he could at least give them that.
As the full moon broke through the clouds over Kthama, the turnout for the first Leader’s meeting was a resounding success; the cave system was once again pressed to overflowing.
Enjoying a brief moment of solitude, Moc’Tor stood with his face to the moonlight and asked the Great Spirit for guidance and wisdom. The next morning between the first meal and the midday meal, he would address the other Leaders and their Healers.
As he had a hundred times before, Moc’Tor headed for the front of the room, head held high, with the Leader’s Staff in his hand. This time, however, many different eyes followed his massive silver-coated frame as he passed by. To his right stood Oragur and Drit, to his left, E’ranale, his First Choice. He signaled for them to be seated and turned to address the large group of Leaders and Healers.
“Thank you for coming to Kthama. This is a momentous occasion, and we honor your presence with us—the first time we, as Leaders, have come together in unity. I hope you will find value in our assembly and that we will continue these meetings past our current crisis.
“I know that many of you will still be tired after a long journey here, and for that reason, some of our females will be bringing refreshments so you may relax somewhat before we move to a private meeting room to conduct our business.”
A while later, in the large, secluded room, Moc’Tor got down to the issues before them.
“Ever since the sickness reduced our numbers, we have struggled with repopulation. Despite all our efforts, we seem to have come to an impasse. When our females do become seeded, many of the offling die or are born impaired. I know it is the same for your people. Each of you is in a position of influenc
e. Each of you has a community that looks to you for guidance and protection. As for me, I feel that for a long time, I have failed in both regards. The mantle of leadership can become heavy at times. Perhaps, together as one people, we can solve our problems.”
Solok’Tar from the Great Pines stood to speak. “As Leader, I have willingly borne alone the burden of my people. But I believe Moc’Tor is right. It is time now that we band together and bring our collective wisdom to bear on this problem. If we do not, we will eventually all perish. Let us not forget our duty to Etera.”
Next rose Hatos’Mok of the Deep Valley.
“We have done as you did, Moc’Tor. We gave our females the right to choose with whom to mate. At first, there was much dissent among the males. Uprisings. But that is behind us, and it was the right decision. But still, we have no favor with the Great Spirit. And the females’ heartache at holding their deadborn is turning to anger. They demand solutions. They demand their right to produce life, and they look to me for answers. Yet I have none to give. I, too, welcome this new community of leadership.”
Oragur stood to speak, “Not all the male seed is sour. Some males in each community are fathering live, healthy offling.”
Moc’Tor took back the floor. “Oragur is right; some of our offling are still being born healthy, so all is not lost, but we need to maximize the benefit. Perhaps it is time for another change. When our numbers were overflowing, we had enough healthy young adults for matings within our own communities. Now, perhaps it is time to consider an exchange.”
Those present started talking among themselves.
“An exchange? What kind of exchange?” The anonymous question came from the middle of the crowd.
“An exchange of females. Or of males. Instead of mating within our own communities, as they come of age, our young adults could be paired with suitable mates from another community.”
“And make them leave their homes to live with strangers?” It was a different voice this time.
“You make it sound like exile,” the Guardian continued. “They would be welcomed to their new community, would they not? The promise of healthy new offling? New bloodlines? It should be a cause for celebration. In time it could become voluntary—but not until we have fully re-established our numbers.”
“It would be unpopular, Moc’Tor!”
He laughed. “I have come up with unpopular decisions before, Krasus’Nol. It is one of my gifts. Yes, it will be unpopular, but only for the first generation or so. The next generations raised in this way will expect it, accept it as part of our culture. And further, it will knit us closer together. We have been isolated from each other for far too long. In each of our communities, the numbers are low; we have half-siblings and cousins mating with each other. Perhaps that is also part of our losing favor with the Great Spirit. Perhaps that is part of the reason why those of our offling who survive are born unhealthy.”
Another voice arose, “We cannot change this quickly, Moc’Tor. What you ask is impossible.”
“If what I ask is impossible, then we are all doomed. Within a few generations, the Mothoc will no longer walk the land. What will happen when we are not here to worship Etera and protect her? Who will serve as keepers of the forest? What eyes will look out at the beauty of this world and give thanks and honor her bounty? Who will look after and protect the Others as we have always done? Our homes will stand, and the Mother Stream will flow, but without the Mothoc. And without us, the flow of the creative breath of the Great Spirit, which sustains our world, the flow of the Aezaitera, will weaken. Without the Mothoc and the Guardian, the future of Etera is at risk.”
Moc’Tor walked closer to the group. “Dealing with change has always been our greatest challenge. We have to be backed against a wall with one last breath remaining before we will even consider it. But we cannot wait for that now. If we wait until change is comfortable, change will never come. If we wait until we want to change, the opportunity will have passed. It will be too late. If we must wait until change is forced upon us to open our minds to it, well, that time is here.
“So, instead of resisting change, I am asking you to embrace it. I am challenging you to embrace it. If I may be so bold, I am telling you that as a Leader, it is your responsibility to your people to require it. Order it. Shove it down their throats if you have to. Bear their wrath. Do whatever it takes but be the Leader. Be strong enough to do whatever is necessary to ensure that our people do not disappear from Etera. Without us, Etera’s lifeblood will weaken and dry up, and eventually, all life upon her will pass into history.”
As his speech ended, a commotion in the back of the room diverted everyone’s attention. Two large Mothoc guards entered the room dragging a young male and followed closely by an older female. The guards looked around, realizing they had disturbed the meeting but unsure what else they could have done.
Moc’Tor strode toward them. “What is it? What is the problem?” He recognized Trestle suspended between the guards—the mentally impaired male he had been speaking about not long ago.
“It is Trestle, Moc’Tor. We found him near the Others’ territory. He has been missing for days, and after finding no sign of him on our own land, our search finally widened to the land that borders their territory.”
Moc’Tor looked at Trestle, who seemed terrified.
“Moc’Tor, he was with one of the Others.”
Moc’Tor turned his eyes from Trestle to the guards.
“And?” The Guardian’s eyes were steely cold.
“A maiden, Moc’Tor. He was about to take her without her consent. Or at least try to.”
Moc’Tor closed his eyes as Trestle’s mother rushed over and grabbed her son’s arm. She quickly let go when the Leader opened his eyes and looked down at her. “Please, Moc’Tor,” she begged. “We have been searching for him. He does not know any better. None of our females will have him. He does not understand; he has seen others of our people similarly occupied. He did not mean any harm.”
Moc’Tor hated that this was the mother of Warnak, the defiant young male he had impaled years ago over Norcab’s revolt. Now, once again, more heartache for this poor female who has done nothing to deserve any of it. “Where is the maiden?”
“We pulled him off her. She had passed out, no doubt from fear.”
“Are you sure he did not—”
“No, Guardian, we caught him in time. If he had, no doubt it would have killed her. She could never have accepted the size of him. He would have torn her open beyond survival if she had not first died of fright.”
“Clean him up, feed him, and confine him. I will deal with this later.”
The accused’s mother looked up at him pleadingly before following the guards as they led Trestle away.
“Leaders and Healers,” Moc’Tor resumed. “Let us take a short break as it is almost time for the evening meal that our females have laid out for you in the Great Chamber. Discuss these problems among yourselves and bring back your thoughts when we meet here afterward.”
Outside the meeting room, E’ranale approached Moc’Tor. “Trestle. What happened?”
“He almost violated one of the Others.”
“Violated?”
“Without her consent.”
“Moc’Tor, it would have killed her!”
“He almost mated her. They stopped him in time. We do not know that he harmed her other than nearly scaring her to death.”
Oragur joined them. “This is a serious transgression, Moc’Tor. Perhaps it would be best to make her disappear.”
Moc’Tor turned, grabbed Oragur by the throat, and pushed him back, pinning him to the wall. “Do not tell me how serious this is, Healer. I am well aware of the trouble Trestle has caused us all because of his mental impairment, but do not ever suggest doing anything of the sort to an innocent to cover up our sin. We are the Mothoc. The breath of Etera! Though they do not know it, we look after the Others. And above even that, you are a Healer; it is your job to fo
ster life, not to take it. What is wrong with you? Va!”
He released Oragur, who rubbed his throat and glanced at E’ranale. She also looked as if she was about to snap.
“Enough! Enough.” Moc’Tor threw up his arms. “Enough for now. I will be in my quarters.”
“Are you not going after him?” Oragur asked E’ranale.
“Go after him? I am not going after him. But if you would like to, be my guest.”
Oragur rubbed his neck some more. “No. I think it is better that he has some time to himself.”
After a while, E’ranale did go to find Moc’Tor. He was lying on the arrangement of leaves and mosses covered by a hide that, together, made up their sleeping mat. It was unusual to find him stretched out there in the middle of the day.
“Moc’Tor?” she asked as she entered.
“You may join me if you wish. It is safe; I will not bite your head off as I did with Oragur. I have no more answers, E’ranale. The females are about to revolt. I am tired of the fires that constantly burn for our dead offling, and I can only imagine how the mothers feel. Now we have Trestle, who almost violated one of the Others’ maidens. And a room full of Leaders and Healers expecting me to have a solution. Why did I think it was a good idea to bring everyone together?”
“Because it was a good idea. Not just a good idea; it was a great idea. The Leaders need a way to come together and share their counsel with each other, and because most of the Leaders and their Healers—if not all—are here at the same time, decisions can immediately be agreed upon. And your idea of exchanging the youth was inspired.”
“Why are my inspired ideas always so unpopular?”
“It is as you said; you have a gift.”
Moc’Tor gave her a sideways look and pulled her over to him. “Make me forget about it all for a while, E’ranale. Or are you too close to delivering?”
The Age of Darkness: Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness Book 1 (The Etera Chronicles Series Two - Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness) Page 5
