Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)

by A. D. Green

  Be damned if I’ll let ’em carry me over, Darion thought. His ego had taken a battering with the run through the forest the night before. He didn’t think he could take being born across like a piece of baggage. It was insulting. He gave R’ell a dark look, suddenly angry. The decision to cross had been made and without him saying a damn thing. He’d been manipulated, simply and effectively. Soonest started, soonest finished he resolved.

  Darion didn’t bother responding; the ilf was starting to annoy him. Resigned, he set his pack down near a still smoking campfire along with his ilf bow. As he turned back he saw M’rika looking at him, a semblance of a grin on her face. It didn't help his mood any.

  “I’ll come meet your K’raal, if someone will mind my pack and weapons,” Darion grumbled.

  “They'll be safe here,” R’ell replied.

  Unclasping his newly acquired cloak Darion knelt and folded it on top of his pack. Then, standing again, he walked brusquely past the ilf towards the ford.

  M’rika caught Darion up, falling into step beside him. “You have much to learn about the ilfanum,” she said, clearly amused.

  “No argument from me on that,” Darion grunted. He noticed the ilf had shed her cloak and weapons, baring a dagger at her hip. Glancing about he saw they were the only ones who had. The others all carried their weapons and packs with them.

  “What are you doing M’rika?” He asked suspicion lacing his voice.

  M’rika didn’t answer; widening her step she entered the water ahead of him.

  Watching her wade across with no hesitation Darion followed, reluctantly, into the biting cold. I should be used to this, he grumbled as icy water lapped up to his waist. But he wasn’t, if anything it was worse. This time he didn’t have the fire in his blood from his earlier flight or from the excitement of the battle the previous night. This time the fording of the river was more torturous. When finally he reached the far bank he was wet, numb with cold and shivering.

  The ilf had set up in the trees just to the north, upwind of the urak camp. As Darion walked past the dead the reason became clear and he wrinkled his nose at the stench. He followed M’rika in amongst the trees.

  Ruith was there and stopped Darion with a gesture.

  “Wait here,” said the ilf.

  M’rika didn’t so much as glance back, her focus intent on a large huddle of ilf a little deeper into the trees.

  Ruith studied Darion. The man was cold and wet; his lips blue. All the ilf that crossed Fassarunewadaick were wet and cold, it was fitting the manling made no complaint. In fact he said nothing, just glared after M’rika.

  “Drink this, it will warm you.” Ruith offered a flask.

  Darion took it, sniffed the contents then took a quick swig. The liquid was smooth, viscous and sweet with a hint of honey and elderflower to it. Warmth spread down his throat and into his chest. Gasping Darion held the flask out, amazed. A delicious heat spread through his body, extending down his limbs to his hands and feet, banishing the cold. It was invigorating and he felt energy fill him.

  “Ruith, that is… really good stuff,” Darion said handing the flask back, “A drink for gods.”

  Ruith beamed at the praise and waved his hand, refusing the flask. “Keep it ilf friend. You will have need of it if you are to cross the river again.”

  Darion stared at Ruith, it was a princely gift. The old ilf gazed back unperturbed, dark eyes inscrutable.

  “Thank you Ruith.”

  Ruith inclined his head in acknowledgment, pleased.

  “It is my own recipe. Good for weary body, mind and spirit. Do not use it to excess though,” the ilf warned. Then, looking about, he whispered, “I have never tried it on a manling before. I caution against overuse, in case of unexpected side effects.”

  Darion nodded back, unsure what to say. Thankfully they were interrupted as M’rika returned with R’ell. Walking beside them was another ilf, his leaf skin a similar green hue to M’rika’s, except for a slightly darker patina. This must be their Lord and M’rika’s brother, he thought.

  The ilf lord was taller even than R’ell. Confidence and power exuded from him. He was attired in similar fashion to the other ilf, a woven flaxen belt and skirt with a dark mottled cloak made of leaf that seemed to flow from his shoulders.

  Darion took an involuntary step back as the ilf's cloak swirled. Its mottled colouring changed to a solid black, the leaf shapes melding into each other to create a uniform look that left Darion wondering if the thing was enchanted.

  A sheathed sword lay across the ilf's back, its pommel protruding from the edge of the cloak by his left shoulder. In his hand he clasped a bow, something it seemed all ilf carried apart from Ruith. Stopping two paces from Darion the ilf examined him with interest; his dark eyes black and unfathomable.

  “I am D’ukastille del Da’Mari, K’raal. Welcome Darion to Da’Mari, this is Rohelinewaald, my ward,” he said with an easy grace. “We could name it Darkwood, as it is known by your folk, if you prefer?”

  “Rohelinewaald will do fine, Lord. I’m in your land after all,” Darion replied.

  The ilf laughed. “That is not accurate. You might say I am of the land but it is not my land. This is Da’Mari.” He gestured, sweeping his arms wide.

  Darion didn’t understand, was Da’Mari the forest then, the land or something else? He would have to ask Ruith or M’rika later if the chance arose. Now though was not the time.

  “I came as soon as I felt your presence. Although I admit it was to kill you,” D’ukastille said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Trespass in Da’Mari is not permitted. Practising magic in Da’Mari, no matter how trivial, is not tolerated. Both of these you have violated. This you know Darion Castell of the Order.”

  “I do, K’raal,” Darion admitted, showing no surprise at the reveal. He made no defence of his actions. The Order had made it clear before he got his assignment to the Old Forest, all those many years ago, that ilfanum lands were prohibited and the consequences of breaking that prohibition. Besides he reasoned, the ilf lord had already made his decision. If death was the outcome it would have been meted out already. He waited, flicking a quick glance to M’rika.

  “You did not tell me you were of the Order Darion. That was remiss of you,” M’rika said, returning his look. “I see new meaning in Rawrdredtigkahs message.”

  “Pardon me, Lady. The Order is not welcome in ilf lands,” Darion said, uncertainly. M’rika’s tone was of wry amusement which clashed with her stern countenance.

  D’ukastille laughed. It was a warm sound. “You have understated matters I think.” He looked at his sister. “Da’Mari is aware of all things here and offers her gratitude and thanks for your interventions.”

  Darion mulled that snippet of information. D’ukastille wasn’t expressing gratitude but Da’Mari. Did that mean Da’Mari was a being then and ruler of this realm? He filed the thought away.

  D’ukastille continued. “Your violations are of no moment. Da’Mari has waived them and names you ilf friend.”

  “Thank Da’Mari for me,” Darion said.

  The ilf looked amused. “Da’Mari finds you interesting manling. Your thanks are not needed. But come, you are named ilf friend already are you not? May I see your token?” D’ukastille asked, extending his hand.

  Reaching inside his tunic Darion withdrew it. He remembered M’rika’s words the day R’ell made the same request and glanced furtively at her now. M’rika inclined her head a fraction, a hint of a smile ghosting her face. Pulling it off over his head he placed it, reluctantly, in to the ilf Lord's outstretched hand.

  The ilf studied it briefly with great interest. “This is De'Nestarin’s mark. He has been gone many cycles from Da’Mari. How did you come by it if I may ask?”

  “He called himself Nesta. We met at the Blue Lakes, Bluskiwadaiak you name them. It was when the cycles of the three moons aligned twelve years ago. He was communing as I understand it.” Darion paused thinking back on that time. “I was lo
oking for the honey trees when I found him. He’d been struck down by a palsy or illness and was very sick.”

  “Preposterous,” R’ell said. “De’Nestarin would never be so weak…”

  “Your opinion R’ell is of no moment, do not interrupt,” D’ukastille snapped. The look he gave was stern with disapproval. “If you cannot hold your tongue, leave!”

  R’ell dropped to his knees, mortified, and bowed his head to the soil. “Forgive me K’raal.”

  D’ukastille ignored R’ell gesturing instead to Darion. “I am sorry for his bad manners. Please continue.”

  Darion glanced at R’ell, knelt with his head down unmoving, then back to the ilf Lord. “I found Nesta unconscious and delirious. He was like this for several days and I cared for him in that time. Fed him water and kept him safe until he regained himself.”

  Darion considered a moment. He’d spent many days with Nesta as he recovered his health and they had discussed many things, but what was relevant to this ilf lord.

  “Nesta never told me what happened to cause his ailment. I believe it was related to a casting he made.”

  Then at D’ukastille’s look, clarified, “Nesta didn’t tell me that, the conjecture is mine but I think it right. We spoke of many things whilst he recovered his strength. He was a fascinating and interesting companion and we became friends,” Darion said. “He gave me his token and bid me always wear it, especially in the old forest or near ilf lands. He said it would offer me protection. I have worn it ever since.”

  The ilf Lord thought a while his face an impenetrable mask. Finally, he offered the neck thong and token back only now, Darion saw, there was a second token on the tie.

  “Da’Mari’s,” D’ukastille explained. “If you hold it in your hand when you are ready it will mark you. It is a great honour, granting protection and bestowing many blessings. M’rika will explain later. Walk with me a while.”

  D’ukastille strolled past Darion leaving him no choice but to turn and follow. As they walked, leaving the rest behind, the ilf spoke. “You answer a mystery with more mystery it seems. De’Nestarin is eminent amongst the ilfanum. That you bare his token is unheard of. But it is his and given freely, else you would not live to tell of it.”

  Darion was not sure what the ilf meant by this but held his questions. His old master told him once that not all questions should be asked. “Silence has its own wisdom,” he would say. To be honest, Darion hadn’t always understood his master; he was full of such quotes that seemed meaningless and arbitrary. That the memory came to him then meant something. Maybe this was one of those times to stay silent.

  “Signs and ill portents abound.” D’ukastille continued. “It is Da’Mari’s belief that these things are all connected. Your encounter with De’Nestarin many cycles ago and now M’rika only highlight this.”

  D’ukastille glanced at the man beside him, weighing him. His aura was strong and clean. He was honourable in his ways. He reached a decision.

  “The urak are on the move. The White Hand occupies the Blue Lakes and push south even as we speak. This you know already. The Blood Skull has attacked one of your settlements further to the east. Redford I believe it is named.”

  Darion’s heart sank at these words. Unlike the kingdom, the Order taught history to its people. One urak clan was bad and they would be hard pressed to counter it. Two clans though were unheard of since the War of the Taken. Ill portents indeed he thought, worried.

  D’ukastille saw the shock flicker across the man’s face. He covers it well, but not well enough. His course set, D’ukastille pressed on.

  “There is a darkness coming Darion. Our seers read it in the heavens, feel it on the winds. This is merely the start of things. Urak are on the move across the whole of the Fianan Domhein.” Seeing Darion frown and thinking him unclear on his point he elaborated. “What is called by humans the Teeth of the World, the Torns Mountains.”

  Darion nodded understanding and D’ukastille continued. “There are seven clans of the urak. Three we know are on the move, but there may be more. This is unusual and worrying. Though man’s memory is short the ilfanum still remember the Morhudrim War. Da’Mari see’s parallels.”

  They reached the treeline overlooking the river. They turned, walking back the way they had come.

  “Da’Mari seeks council with the Order, with Keeper,” D’ukastille said. The ilf's emphasis on Order and Keeper gave Darion the distinct impression it was distasteful to the ilf.

  “This is unusual. Most ilfanum have no trust in the Order, although we abide by the accord struck. This makes it difficult for us. Da’Mari asks that you carry her word to Keeper. You have Rawrdredtigkah of the Silver Lake Clan’s warning already, I understand. So no extra effort should be required.”

  Darion took a deep breath. Of course he must do it, he knew this, but this was big. There was a lot at stake. The Order had seen no contact with the ilfanum for hundreds of years and if what D’ukastille said was true then the all nine of the Kingdoms provinces were in trouble.

  “I will carry word K’raal D’ukastille.”

  “Good, M’rika will go with you.” Watching the man as he spoke D’ukastille saw the protest on his face, in his eyes. Man is so predictable, so emotional.

  “She is Da’Mari’s envoy and is entrusted to your care,” D’ukastille said.

  Darion felt himself caged in, the decision made whether he willed it or not. His thoughts turned to Marron and Nihm, he had to find them above all things. Dragging an ilf around whilst he did so would only complicate things and slow him down.

  “M’rika has recently lost her bond mate. She is mourning. Maybe it’s best she remain with her people. I can convey your message,” Darion said.

  D’ukastille stopped and faced Darion, his look hard and uncompromising. “You question Da’Mari? Clearly you do not understand, else you would hold your tongue. Da’Mari has spoken.” His voice was sharp, direct and final.

  Ilf appeared suddenly through the trees, materialising as if out of nowhere. D’ukastille waved them away with a curt gesture.

  Darion knew he’d caused offense. Touchy bastard, he thought. The ilf Lord’s shoulders were back, his head up; he exuded menace. His green leaf scale changed to a darker hue, like black armour, then back again to a mottled leafy green and gold.

  “Forgive my suggestion Lord. I meant no insult,” Darion said, his voice neutral.

  D’ukastille closed his eyes, head canted to the side. After a moment he took a long breath, seeming to calm himself.

  “I apologise. It is many cycles since I last spoke to one of your kind.” He bowed his head, contrite. “Manners are important to an ilf, you understand? You are not wise in our ways, I should have made allowance.”

  “I understand K’raal,” Darion replied on edge still. He was finding the ilf hard to fathom, one moment friendly the next touchy as a bag of ferrets.

  D’ukastille pondered a moment before addressing Darion once more.

  “Maybe what you say has some merit.” D’ukastille conceded. “I will ask R’ell to attend you both. It will be good for M’rika to have one of her own to talk to; that understands our ways.” He smiled showing perfect teeth, the canines long and pointed.

  Darion found himself staring at the ilf. This close up the darker patina on his leaf scale seemed almost fluid, the shapes and swirls hinting at things Darion couldn't understand. Order training never really covered this, Darion thought, aggrieved at the way things had gone and in particular at R’ell’s sudden inclusion. M’rika was civil at least.

  “Sure,” Darion said, giving a reluctant smile. They had almost returned from where they’d started. Through the trees M’rika and R’ell still stood where they’d left them.

  “R’ell, M’rika is Da’Mari’s envoy to the Order. I ask that you attend her on her journey if you are willing.” D’ukastille said.

  “As you wish K’raal,” R’ell replied with no hint of emotion that Darion could see. R’ell bowed deep
ly to D’ukastille. Then, turning to M’rika, repeated his bow.

  Darion watched the exchange with interest. He saw M’rika look to her brother, sensed her disapproval at his announcement, but remained quiet.

  Darion caught R’ell's eye as he completed his bow. Was it his imagination or was there hostility in his look. Well damn, he thought, this just gets better and better.

  Chapter 34

  : Contact

  Anders and his company made good time from the Encoma Holdstead. The dirt road changed to an overgrown track that wended its way through rolling grasslands, interspersed with copses of spruce and oak tree. As they moved north they found signs of recent travel on the path, hoof prints and rutted wheel marks pressed into the mud.

  Glancing to the sky Anders judged it to be well after noon. He could see one of the outriders in the distance to the north and made another quick check on them all.

  Sergeant Kronke had broken the company of twenty into four hands. Each hand assigned a different quadrant to cover with one outrider and the remaining four in troop watching. It was simple and effective for a command this small. Anders let Kronke get on with it. He knew his job.

  So far there’d been no sign of urak. There was plenty of wildlife though, deer grazing the long grass and flocks of birds. Earlier, they’d seen a herd of bison to the far west, tracking south.

  The sun was out and it was a warm pleasant day. Easy to forget the seriousness of their mission and the guards in column laughed and joked. Anders listening into their banter heard Pieterzon regaling them all with his latest conquest. One of the merchant’s daughters apparently had fallen for his charms. Unlikely, Anders thought. The man was ugly in every sense of the word. He turned his attention back to the outriders.

  The further north they rode with lack of contact was both a relief and a worry to Anders. Are they even out here he wondered or are we chasing our tails. Maybe the urak horde moved east not south, they’d attacked Redford after all.

  Doubt gnawed away at him; Redford was four days' hard ride to the east. He’d chosen the Castells’ homestead as it was the first urak sighting. Only Darion hadn’t seen urak had he? Just sign of them and now no sign of his friend.