Ridg’Sor looked back and raised his hand for the others to halt.
Straf’Tor was dismayed at the number of males accompanying Ridg’Sor. He had thought the dissent was dying down. This is not just his original group of rebels. I did not realize so many of my people had turned to his way of thinking. “You will return to Kayerm immediately. All of you,” Straf’Tor ordered. Most avoided his gaze. Good. They should be ashamed, he thought.
“You are no longer in charge here. These people do not follow you; they follow me,” shouted Ridg’Sor.
“Then they follow a fool. What do you hope to accomplish?”
“What you have failed to do. To take care of our people. Claim what is rightfully ours. We struggle and toil while your brother’s people and the abominations he created live in luxury. We are stronger than they are, and we can convince them to give up Kthama Minor or face the consequences.”
“There are far more of them than there are of your pitiful collection,” Straf’Tor countered.
“That may be true, but by force of strength, ours is the greater position,” said Ridg’Sor. “Plus, we have the element of surprise,” he added.
“I will take care of that right now. Wosot, you and two others go on ahead and warn the sentries at Kthama of Ridg’Sor’s plan. The rest of you, come back with me now or leave Kayerm to wander on your own.”
Ridg’Sor snarled as the two males led by Wosot ran on towards Kthama.
The members of Ridg’Sor’s group turned to each other, their eyes wide.
“Our fathers searched this area thoroughly,” said Straf’Tor. “The only cave system close by is Kayerm. If you think life at Kayerm is hard, try living without it. I thought you would have learned that lesson, Ridg’Sor. You were lucky to have found Kayerm after my brother put an end to that despicable traitor, Norcab, and you were exiled from Kthama. You will not be so lucky this time.”
Ridg’Sor turned to the group with him. “He is lying,” Ridg’Sor countered. “They did search the area, but I guarantee you they quit looking once they found Kayerm. There could be another system around here; you cannot say there is not.”
“The cold months are upon us,” said Straf’Tor. “If you do not come back with me now, you will never be allowed to return. You have no food stores with you. You have no tools except the weapons you are holding. And what of your females? Your offling? Are you prepared to abandon them forever?”
Straf’Tor could see his words were having an effect on the rebels. Heads turned as they consulted with each other. More and more now returned his gaze, and slowly, several of them stepped away from the group and walked toward Straf’Tor.
“Cowards!” yelled Ridg’Sor.
Straf’Tor waited until nearly all had joined his side.
“You blamed your brother for destroying the Mothoc. Well, you are doing the same,” Ridg’Sor hissed, his face contorted. “The Great Spirit will make you pay for your ignorance, mark my words.”
“Take a look, Ridg’Sor. Your followers have abandoned you. You and Salus stand alone. I give you one last chance. Make your decision. Return to Kayerm and accept my rule, or continue on your way. But if you leave, do not approach Kthama. I promise you I will know if you do, and there will be no third chance.” Straf’Tor’s voice was steel. He started back in the direction of Kayerm, leaving Ridg’Sor and Salus standing side by side.
“Va!” Ridg’Sor spat on the ground, looked at Salus, and they began to follow Straf’Tor back to Kayerm.
Moc’Tor looked up from his meal as Dochrohan approached.
“Adik’Tar,” Dochrohan said. “Three of Straf’Tor’s males have approached. They came to warn us that the rebel leader, Ridg’Sor, had assembled a group to try to take Kthama Minor from us. Fortunately, Straf’Tor discovered them.”
The Leader stopped picking through his food. “Surely such a small group poses no threat,”
“It was not a small group, Adik’Tar. Apparently, he recruited some of Straf’Tor’s people. I do not know that they would have succeeded, but they might have done some damage.”
“I owe my brother; this is just what we did not want to have happen. Our peoples must be divided and remain divided. Because of my foolishness in allowing the breeding with the Others to go too far, his people are the best hope for Etera, as they carry the most Mothoc blood.”
Moc’Tor thought for a moment. “Are the messengers still here?”
“Yes, Adik’Tar.”
“Take me to them,” the Leader said and got up. They headed for the Great Entrance where Wosot and his sentries stood.
While the three were waiting, they had scanned the area, all so familiar. “It still feels like home,” Wosot had said quietly.
Moc’Tor approached them. “Thank you for coming; I wish you to take a message to my brother. Ask him to come to Kthama. Tell him, “It is time.” He will understand.”
As they left, Wosot stopped to take one last look around what had been their home for so long.
“Straf’Tor was right,” said one of the males as they made their way down the path. “As long as we remember and speak of Kthama, there will be no peace at Kayerm. Just that short time considerably stirred up my longing. It would be better if we did not know it existed.”
“Straf’Tor was right to order everyone never to speak of Kthama again,” added Wosot. “They are not complying, but I see the wisdom in it.”
“What are you planning to do?” asked Dochrohan.
“Finish what we started,” Moc’Tor said. “Do we have enough sentries to start posting them around Kthama?”
“Yes, depending on how many you want.”
“Only a few. Scout the area; consider the approaches. Then place three or four around the perimeter so that next time we will not be caught off guard.”
“It will be a boring job,” said Dochrohan.
“Ask for volunteers. I am sure some will be more suited for it than others. Right now, hours of solitude surrounded by the beauty of Etera sounds very pleasant to me.” Moc’Tor slapped Dochrohan on the back and sent him on his way.
Dak’Tor, Moc’Tor’s son, had come looking for him. “Father, Mother is asking for you.”
“What is wrong?”
“She is not feeling well and wishes for your company.”
Moc’Tor frowned and followed Dak’Tor quickly down the corridor to the Leader’s Quarters.
E’ranale was propped up against the wall on their sleeping mat, hides gathered up around her.
“You are cold?” he asked, moving to sit at her side. He took her hands in his. “Tell me what is wrong?”
“The pain is increasing.”
“What pain? The pain you mentioned before?” he asked. “The one you said was indigestion?”
“Yes. It is more constant now. Piercing.”
Moc’Tor turned to his son. “Send our fastest messenger to the Deep Valley. At once. Ask Oragur to come to Kthama immediately. Tell him E’ranale is in trouble, and we need his help. Do not look for Dochrohan; he is busy with another task. Find Bakru; he will know who to send.”
Dak’Tor took off immediately in search of Dochrohan’s right hand.
“Bakru,” Dak’Tor called out as he approached. The guard was speaking with a group of males and turned to meet Moc’Tor’s son.
“Yes, Dak’Tor?” He bowed the slightest bit, recognizing the future Leader of the High Rocks.
“My mother is not well. Something seems very wrong. My father is terribly worried and asks that you please send the fastest messenger to the Deep Valley and get Oragur the Healer to come immediately.”
Bakru motioned to two of his males, and they hurried off. “Let your father know it is attended to. Is there anything else we can do?”
Dak’Tor thought a moment. “No, but I need to tell my sisters.”
Dak’Tor had soon gathered his sisters Vel, Inrion, and Pan. “Mother is in pain. On Father’s orders, I have sent for the Healer, Oragur, from the Deep Valley.”
“Can we see her?” Vel asked.
“I am sure she wants to see you all,” he replied.
“Let us not go at once,” said Pan to her sisters. “It might alarm her, making her think she is in serious trouble. And let us not stay long; Father will be with her, and she is likely upset. While we are there, she will feel she must put on a brave face. May I go first?” she asked. “I will not be long; I just desperately need to speak with Father.”
As badly as Pan wanted to see her mother, she needed her father’s advice first. She clacked the announcement stone outside their door.
“Come,” she heard her father’s familiar voice. Ordinarily, that sound alone would soothe her, but this time her feeling of alarm would not leave. She poked her head through the door. Her mother was curled up in a ball and seemed to be asleep.
“Father, may I speak with you?”
Moc’Tor eased away from his mate and stepped into the tunnel to meet with his daughter.
“Let us walk away so as not to wake her,” said Moc’Tor. “This is the first rest she has gotten in some time.”
They had to walk a way to reach a smaller room to talk in.
“What is the matter with her? When did this start?” asked Pan. “She is never sick.”
“The first I heard her mention that anything was wrong is when she told me she was seeded. It seems it has only gotten worse with time. Now it is far sharper and lasts longer.”
“I am afraid, Father. Is there anything we can do while we are waiting for Oragur to get here?” She put out of her mind the hope that Oragur might bring his mate and Liru, and maybe Rohm’Mok.
“The Order of Functions,” they said at the same time, just as Vel approached. Knowing she would sit with E’ranale, Pan and Moc’Tor left for the meadow above Kthama.
Before long, they were there. The cold air was refreshing, and they hardly felt the cold.
“First, the creative stream,” Moc’Tor reminded his daughter.
They stilled themselves and entered the Aezaiterian flow.
Pan welcomed the peace and ecstasy of being immersed in the creative stream. She sent her awareness, her life force, down into the vortex below Kthama and surrendered to the bliss that never grew old. But all too soon, it was time to return and face the Order of Functions.
They opened their eyes, and Moc’Tor asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she replied. Pan had learned how to surrender to the dissipation of her consciousness across what felt like eternity. It was still unpleasant, but she knew full well what to expect and kept in mind the sacredness of her role as Guardian. And it was only temporary.
As before, they somehow knew when to return, and before very long, Pan had opened her eyes again.
Her father looked at her, “That is all we can do. What will be now will be. I pray it is the Great Spirit’s will that she recovers.”
Pan’s eyes widened. “Is it that serious? Are you saying she might—die?”
“I do not know, daughter; I feel it is a possibility. I cannot imagine life without your mother, so we must pray that we will not lose her.”
Pan shook her head. How could the Great Spirit take Mother? It cannot happen. It cannot. “I know that each time we engage the Order of Functions only imprints the divine pattern more strongly on our realm. If it is the Great Spirit’s will that Mother passes from us, then I refuse ever to engage it again,” she said furiously.
“You are scared and angry, Pan, so I will treat your words as just that. You are a Guardian. This is your duty. It is not for us to say what the future holds.”
“How can you say that? You love Mother!”
“Never doubt that I love her more than life itself. Like you, I cannot imagine going on without her,” her father replied. “Do not take what I am saying as acceptance of her dying. I am only telling you that if she did, you could not abandon your responsibilities as Guardian. The weight of all life on Etera, not just your mother’s, rests on the Guardian’s role,” he said softly. Then he put his arms around her and drew her toward him.
Pan wrapped her arms around her father’s neck, and for a while, sobbed into his silver-white coat.
“Let us put this from our minds,” he said as he kissed the top of her head. “Oragur will be here soon. He is very experienced; let us see what he says. And perhaps your Mother is awake now,” he said.
“I told my siblings not to visit her together, but rather to coordinate their visits so as not to wear her out or alarm her.” Pan sniffed.
“Wise advice. You will make a great Guardian when the mantle is passed to you.”
“I am not ready. Do not speak of it.”
“I am not talking about me dying. I am talking about you taking your place as a Guardian while I mentor you. Much as I took over from my father while he was still alive. Nothing more.”
“Have I not been fulfilling my role?”
“In part, but I have been bearing the brunt of it.”
“That is why you seem tired. I have never seen you tired before,” Pan added.
“Difficult times require more of us, and it cycles. Some eras are worse, and some are easier. I will be glad when it cycles back to an easier time,” he smiled. “And there is more I must teach you; you have yet to learn how to guide others to enter the Ror’Eckrah, the One Mind. But for now, let us go.”
Dak’Tor intercepted them as they came into the Great Entrance. “Bakru’s runner has returned, and Oragur is on his way.”
Pan ignored the urge to ask if he was coming alone.
Over the next few days, E’ranale’s pain did not abate but continued to worsen. Finally, Moc’Tor was told Oragur was nearly at Kthama.
Moc’Tor, Dak’Tor, and Pan waited for him to appear. Pan’s eyes widened when she recognized Rohm’Mok, and with no regard for propriety, she flung herself into his arms.
Rohm’Mok caught her up. “I missed you so, but I am sorry to be here under these circumstances.”
“I am so glad you came; I am so frightened,” Pan said.
Moc’Tor greeted Oragur. “Thank you for coming.”
“Let us go to her; there is no point in delaying,” the Healer replied.
Moc’Tor asked Pan, Dak’Tor, and Rohm’Mok to give them some time and suggested that they find Vel and Inrion.
Shortly, Oragur and Moc’Tor were with E’ranale in the Leader’s Quarters. E’ranale opened her eyes. “Oh, Oragur. I am so glad you are here,” she exclaimed.
“Tell me about your pain,” he said.
E’ranale pointed to the right side of her abdomen. “It has only gotten worse.”
“When did it start?”
“A few weeks after I realized I was seeded. I thought it was just indigestion,” she answered.
He gently felt where she said it was hurting, and she let out a loud cry.
“I am sorry. I do not mean to hurt you.”
Oragur ran his hand over his face and looked up at Moc’Tor before looking away again.
A bolt of fear ran through Moc’Tor’s center. “What is it?” he asked, clenching his fists. When Oragur said nothing, Moc’Tor forcefully dragged him out into the corridor and down a way to be out of earshot. “Tell me.”
Oragur lowered his voice. “The offling is not where it is supposed to be, in the cradle. It is growing, but in the wrong place.”
“What does that mean?” Moc’Tor said, steeling himself for the answer. “What can you do to help her?”
“There is nothing I can do, Moc’Tor.”
“What are you saying? What will happen as the offling continues to grow? Can she deliver it somehow?”
“I have heard of this before. It is rare, but it happens. I am sorry; eventually, the offling will rupture her insides,” he answered. “Then she will die.”
Moc’Tor wanted to let out a mournful wail. He could not believe this was happening. They stayed in the hallway for some time. When they returned, E’ranale took one look at them, and her tears began to fa
ll. I knew it. I am going to die. I am going to die with my offling unborn. What would happen to Moc’Tor? And her daughters? And Dak’Tor?
Moc’Tor went to E’ranale’s side.
“You do not have to tell me the details. I already figured my situation was dire. I am sorry, my mate. I do not wish to leave you.” She leaned against him, grimacing at the searing pain as she moved.
“I cannot lose you. This cannot happen. You are my life. Without you, there is nothing left,” he whispered to her. “And it is so like you to think of me and the others before yourself.”
He gently moved E’ranale back a bit to look her in the eyes and then laid his hand on her cheek. “I do not know how to imagine a life without you.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” He turned back to ask Oragur again.
“I can consult with the Healer from the Far High Hills, but I do not wish to give you false hope. It is best you prepare for the inevitable.”
“How long?” E’ranale asked.
“I wish I could tell you,” Oragur said. “I can give you something for pain, and you can increase the dosage to keep from suffering. But be careful. It is strong; if you take more than the maximum amount I tell you, it will cause you to journey earlier to the Great Spirit.”
Moc’Tor and E’ranale looked at each other.
“I will go and see what is here in the stores in the Healer’s Quarters. If what I need is not there, I will have to return to Deep Valley to get what she needs.”
Pan, Dak’Tor, and Rohm’Mok were returning with Vel and Inrion.
“Give them a few moments before you go in,” said Oragur, pausing before he hurried away.
Pan’s hand flew to her mouth. She and Dak’Tor looked at each other, and a terrible knowing passed between them.
Not being part of the family, Rohm’Mok opted to wait outside, and after a moment, the others stepped into the doorway. Their parents were sitting together on the sleeping mat, their mother leaning back in their father’s embrace.
The Age of Darkness: Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness Book 1 (The Etera Chronicles Series Two - Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness) Page 18
