The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  “Set it down before you drop it,” Rokwolf said, stopping and squatting slowly.

  Klare gasped as it touched the ground, wiping the sweat from her eyes.

  Rokwolf looked at her and thought for a moment as she caught her breath. “I have an idea,” he said when her breathing slowed. “I think we should save your strength to help me get her down into the cellar. I can carry her by myself.”

  “How?” she asked, skeptical.

  “On my back,” he replied. “Your mother is not that heavy, so if you can help me get the door onto my back, and then you can steady it as I move her.”

  Klare looked down at her mother lying on the door. “How can you get this onto your back? I cannot lift it there.”

  Rokwolf shook his head, slipping bow and quiver off his shoulders and setting them on the ground. “No, but you can hold up one end, allowing me to get under it.”

  Klare again looked skeptical, but did not speak.

  Rokwolf lifted his end, holding it at waist height. “Come and hold it up,” he said, and she came to his end and took one corner. He slipped under it on his knees, putting his back against the door. “Let it down,” he said, putting his arms and hands over his shoulders and behind his head, gripping the edge of the door. “If you would lift and steady the other end, I will get to my feet and start to move.”

  “Ready,” she said and lifted her end slowly, and Rokwolf got slowly to his feet. They started to move toward the cellar.

  “Are you okay?” Klare asked softly.

  “Fine,” Rokwolf replied. “It is easy, once it is on my back and I am on my feet.”

  They moved around the house to the back, stopping when they came to the cellar entrance.

  “We’ll set it down the same way,” Rokwolf said, “steady it while I kneel, then set your end on the ground, then come to my end and lift it off my back while I get out from under it.”

  As Rokwolf started to kneel, they heard a muffled scream from the front of the house.

  “Jally!” Klare exclaimed, turning to look and losing her grip on the door.

  Rokwolf had made it to one knee, and the door tilted to that side, and Klare’s mother started to slide. The scream came again, louder and more frantic. Rokwolf could tell by the shifting of the weight that something was wrong, so he tried to compensate dropping the arm opposite the leg kneeling. His sudden movement stopped the body from falling off that side, but then it slid the other way, too quickly for him to compensate. He flattened himself to the ground, shortening the distance to the ground.

  “Klare!” Rokwolf exclaimed, hoping that she would see and stop her mother from falling off, further injuring her.

  “No!” Klare exclaimed, rolling her mother onto her side; her hands glowed green, as she passed them over her mother’s body.

  “What was the scream?” Rokwolf asked, heaving the door aside.

  “My sister’s run off,” Klare said, a note of panic in her voice, “go after her!”

  Rokwolf jumped to his feet and ran off, pausing to pick up his quiver and bow, slinging the quiver over his shoulder then nocking an arrow. A quick glance over the ground told him what he needed to know: the direction she had gone, running toward the central square of the village. He darted between the wrecked buildings, following her tracks while at the same time looking for enemies; something had awakened and frightened her into running. As he came around the last building before the square, he caught a glimpse of something lying face down about ten yards from the buildings. In an instant, he dove to the left and rolled, hearing something hiss past through the place he had been a moment before. Flattening himself against the wall out of sight of the village square, he heard the missile strike something hard, turned toward the sound, and saw a crossbow bolt quivering in a beam that had fallen from the building next to him. He turned the other way, back to the square, and could see that Klare’s sister lay motionless on the ground, bloody, steel-tipped bolt sticking out of her back. From its position and angle, he knew there was no hope. He cursed under his breath: this was all Klare needed, another death of a family member, and from what he had seen before he left Klare, he suspected that her mother would not survive much longer. He looked back at the now still bolt, imagined where Klare’s sister must have been hit, then looked back along what must have been the trajectory of both bolts. On the opposite side of the square, there was a two story building, still standing, the two windows on the second floor were broken, but he could not see anything in the dim light just before dawn. He scanned the area around the building, and as his eyes searched, he heard voices, the sounds of scraping wood and tinkling masonry, of things being shifted in the rubble.

  “Looters,” Rokwolf whispered to himself, and he hoped he was right, that it was not another army of ghelem and purem, looking for them. For a moment, he listened to the sounds; it could not be more of Gar’s servants sent to capture them. For one thing was certain, they would not make so much noise, especially if they knew there were enemies about. He could not move; the space between these two buildings was in clear view of the windows, and he did not know which one concealed the archer, maybe both. He looked at the building next to him; there was the wall across from him, partially standing. If there were something there he could disturb, he might be able to distract the invisible archer long enough that he could get back to Klare before others found her, since he knew there had to be others nearby. He could see nothing in the next building, but just beyond it, he saw a chunk of ceiling plaster, maybe two feet square, dangling from a beam. He slipped the arrow he had nocked back into the quiver, slung his bow over his shoulder, and grabbed a shard of pottery from the ground. He took careful aim, then lobbed the piece of a broken pot toward the dangling plaster. He watched the shard fly toward its target, ready to spring as soon as something happened. The shard hit the dangling plaster, knocking it free; it struck the ground with a resounding crash, and Rokwolf leapt out of the shadows, zig-zagging his way across the open area. He almost stopped when he heard more crashing behind him, as more of the building had fallen. He darted out of sight of the central square, running back to where Klare was. He arrived out of breath, and pulled up short when he saw Klare’s face turn toward him, eyes red, face streaked with tears, and he knew that her mother had died. He knelt beside her, laying one hand upon her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rokwolf croaked, then he went on before she could say or do anything. “There are looters in the village,” he said, “we have to take the horses and get out of here before they find us.”

  “What about my sister?” Klare sobbed. “Where is she?”

  “They killed her when she entered the square,” he replied, “and nearly killed me. We’ve got to go.”

  “I can’t leave my mother here, unburied,” she sobbed, “unmourned.” Her face was hollow, filled with grief.

  Rokwolf looked into her eyes, thinking hard. “We’ll put her body in the cellar, then set fire to the ruins, then no one can desecrate her body or your home.”

  Klare’s eyes filled again with tears; she choked back her sobs, nodding.

  Rokwolf gently lifted her mother’s lifeless body, descending the stairs into the cellar. Moments later, he emerged, carrying a golden chain and locket, and handing it to Klare. Klare took it, looked at it for a moment in her open hand, then her hand closed tightly over it. She looked around.

  “I think I lost my staff,” she noted, her voice tight and unnatural.

  Rokwolf jogged back to where Klare had spent the night, kneeling beside her mother, and returned holding her staff. She accepted it from him and turned to face the ruins of her home, holding up her staff.

  “Stalna-kailigater,” she said in a firm voice, and pointed her staff at the ruins of her family home. From somewhere high overhead, a beam of green fire descended, striking the ruins, and setting all of the rubble on fire at once. Rokwolf covered his eyes until Klare released the orthek. She started to slump, but Rokwolf caught her in his arms, lifted her, and
carried her toward the place where their horses were tethered, shedding tears of sympathy, knowing exactly how it felt to lose one’s parents.

  Chapter 11

  The best way to defeat an aperu is to avoid it, although this tactic is not always possible. . . . Never attack an aperu with less than an entire company, deployed to surround the beast and attack from all sides at once, with maghem and kailum ready to protect against its breath; even with this approach, casualties will be high. Pray to the One that one of its fellows does not come to its rescue, for if one does, the aperum will triumph. . . .

  from the seklesi Manual of Enemies, origin unknown

  The army of seklesem jogged through the night, stopping at sunrise to rest for a few hours before climbing into the Mountains of the Fallen Star on their way to rescue Shigmar. At sunrise, they crossed the Krystal River at the ford of Reema, making a temporary camp in the narrow valley between the river and the mountains. A scouting party left as soon as the army stopped, going north to check the narrow pass that would lead them to the besieged city of the kailum. Marilee, once she had established a camp for her squad, led Delgart back to the ford.

  “Why is it called the Crossing of Reema?” Delgart asked as they walked among the camps toward the ford.

  “I keep forgetting that you spent the last ten years a slave to pirates,” Marilee noted before answering his question. “There is much we need to teach you, so that your knowledge of the land is as great as your skill with the sword.”

  “I am amazed that you learned so much, as a slave,” Grelsor put in. Grelsor was the son of Ghelvon, who was the Master of Fighting Arts on the council of Shigmar; he was almost an exact duplicate of his father, bulky and strong, short black hair sticking like wire out of his round head with cherub-like face. He was a kailu attached to Marilee’s squad. “How did you learn to wield a sword while a slave?”

  “I was first a galley slave,” Delgart replied to Grelsor, “and the pirate cook was lazy, and he would beat his slaves if they failed to prepare meals that pleased the captain and crew. I saw at once that something needed to be done, so I organized the galley slaves, in order to avoid punishment. The cook saw immediately my value and put me in charge of his slaves; he had to do little work and got all the credit from the captain. After a year, he bragged to the captain about how good I was; the captain was suspicious of the cook, so he came and observed our preparations, watching me, I later learned. He was so impressed by the way I directed the galley slaves that he took me from the cook for his own. The captain trained me in all operations of the ship, then placed me in charge of all the slaves, used me to create duty schedules and manage most of the ship’s operations. He was not a cruel man, but a rigorous and demanding master, so I learned much from him, including weapons and fighting. For many years I was in this position, but there were members of the crew who were not happy with his choices, and who grumbled that a slave was telling them what to do. I warned him several times of this, but he felt secure in his position and did not heed my warnings.” Delgart paused, his face becoming bleak.

  “What happened?” Marilee asked.

  “They killed him,” Grelsor put in, “didn’t they?”

  Delgart nodded. “They put me in the hold, manning the oars, and in the bilges, manning the pumps, on short rations. I nearly died, but in my moment of extremity, I thought I saw my father. He came to me in this vision, told me I had to hold on a little longer, and that I would rise to a level of greatness beyond my wildest dreams. I protested that I could not, would not, survive. He replied that, although a slave, I was in control of my destiny. I was so angered by his words that my anger forced me to go on, enabling me to survive. His words often came back to me, but several months passed before I finally understood what he meant: I could not choose how I was treated, but I could choose my response to it, my attitude, and in my misery, I smiled. My captors sensed this change in me, and, fearing that I might incite a rebellion, took me off the benches and locked me in the bilges, manning the pumps to isolate me from the other slaves; they only brought me out one time, during the storm that wrecked the ship, and put me back on the benches. I was the only one who survived the wreck–I survived in spite of all they did.” He stopped speaking and shook his head. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  They were standing next to the ford. Marilee looked horrified by his story, but recovered quickly.

  “Your tale put your question out of my mind,” Marilee said, apologetically.

  “That is my fault,” Grelsor noted. “I am still amazed at how well you wield weapons, and that you would be sent into the field immediately following testing. There is normally a time of training with the uwonti before seklesem are sent into the field.”

  Delgart exchanged a quick look with Marilee before Marilee replied. “I was told that his age and his abilities made the decision to send him into the field, rather than keep him in Holvar for training,” Marilee replied, only glancing at Grelsor once as she spoke.

  Delgart raised an eyebrow, but did not mention his own suspicions, thinking that their superiors had good reasons for withholding the whole story. Both kept their faces covered, hiding their disfiguring scars. Taking a cue from her, he did not mention what had happened to them both.

  “I’m sure there were other reasons,” Marilee went on, “but they did not share any of them with me.”

  Grelsor nodded. He pointed across the ford to the other side. “That mound is the burial site for those who died in the battle here, two-and-a-half millennia in the past. And on this side,” he pointed to a spot to the north of the ford, “is the place where the purem and ghelem who died here were burned.”

  Marilee nodded and took up the story. “The ford was named after the merchant who discovered it, in the fourth century of the first millennium, atno 456, Reema. She wanted to trade with the kailum of Shigmar, so she came north from Rykelle and discovered the ford and a narrow mountain pass that led into the valley surrounding Shigmar. In the beginning of the second millennium, atno 1007 as I recall, the path, only wide enough for a single rider or pack animal, was widened to a wagon road, making it easier to trade with the kailum and the others living in their valley. In atno 1013, after the road was completed, several legions of Gar’s forces floated down river from the Iorn Gate, on their way to attack the city now named Holvar, taking the city by surprise and forcing the seklesem to flee north toward Shigmar. At Reema, the kailum army arrived just in time to stop the purem and ghelem’s northward march. The battle raged at Reema for many days until Sheldu, Headmaster of Shigmar, challenged the ponkolu leader of Gar’s forces, Raghi, to a duel. They stood on the waters of the ford, wielding teka forces that shook the ground, until Sheldu’s staff was broken, killing him. While Raghi was momentarily stunned by the forces released from the breaking of Sheldu’s staff, an awemi, hiding in the rocks at the edge of the ford, darted forward and leapt upon Raghi’s back, slitting the ponkolu’s throat. Raghi’s blood covered the awemi, incinerating both. The fall of their leader in their moment of victory disheartened Gar’s hoards, and they were driven back and slaughtered; only a few escaped to bring tidings to Gar. The Krystal River ran black for months, because of the blood spilled during the battle.” Marilee sighed and looked into the distance.

  “The ford was renamed,” Grelsor went on, “to honor the many who had fallen in battle. But that is not the whole story: a group of purem and ghelem left the main group before the attack on Holvar and took the city of Komfleu, northwest in the Medyoake River valley. In the midst of raising the cairn over those who had fallen here, a messenger, who had been sent to Komfleu, returned to report. The people of Komfleu would not believe that the purem and ghelem were attacking, so refused to send any aid to the Fereghen. The messenger was driven from Komfleu, and had to travel far to the north to avoid Gar’s forces sent against Komfleu. He knew that the city had fallen, being unprepared for the attack. The survivors held a council, and many argued that the people of Komfleu shou
ld be left to their fate for refusing to send aid. Wulfrik, the Fereghen, although wounded, rose from his bed; all in the tent fell silent. He gave an immortal speech of liberty, asserting that as Komfleu was part of his realm, he would free them from the oppression of Gar, in spite of their refusal to send aid. All assembled in the tent were moved by the simple eloquence of Wulfrik’s speech, and they agreed to gather what forces remained and were healthy to go to the aid of Komfleu. The city was easily retaken, and the leaders were tried for willful rebellion against the Fereghen. New leaders were appointed by the people, and all in the city reaffirmed their loyalty to the Fereghen. However, as soon as the liberating forces were out of sight, the people and their leaders returned to their previous attitude, which still holds sway down to this day.”

  “How do you know?” Delgart asked.

  “Because my family was driven from Komfleu,” Grelsor replied, smiling wryly, “when I was very young.”

  Marilee nodded. “My family also lived in Komfleu, for a time,” she added, “but my father moved us when he could see that the people were content with what they had and were: average non-achievers.”

  “We get the word, ‘mediocre,’ from there,” Grelsor said, “from the name of the river, ‘Medyoake,’ which means ‘in the middle of the oaks,’ a description of the valley where the two rivers meet at Komfleu, which is ‘confluence,’ and the people are content to be ‘lost in the middle of the oaks.’”

  Delgart shook his head slowly. “It is very sad,” he noted, “that people could be so blinded . . . ,” but what he thought was lost in an alarm bell that suddenly rang out. All their heads turned north in the direction of the bell, and the moment of silence immediately following the bell was rent by a roaring sound, coming from the same direction.