Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

Hkuan’duv almost let anger get the better of him. But the hkomas was correct, his harsh tone justified, and who could blame him? Anmaglâhk had taken polite control of his vessel, and they trailed their own people like a pack of skulking Ylladon.

  “I must know what happened,” Hkuan’duv explained, “and as quickly as possible.”

  “Then you are welcome to accompany my crew, Greimasg’äh.”

  The hkomas’s hard words clearly implied who was now in charge.

  “You may ask your questions,” the hkomas added, “so long as you do not impinge upon the well-being of those left stranded.”

  Hkuan’duv nodded slowly. He gestured to his team to wait on board and descended quickly into the skiff.

  As the small boat closed upon the shore, two of the exhausted land-bound crew waded out to guide it in. Hkuan’duv saw burns and other injuries among those stranded, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He counted heads, and by a quick estimate, a fourth of a standard cargo vessel crew was missing. A middle-aged man in a brown head scarf came closer. His face and arm were badly burned.

  “Anmaglâhk?” he breathed in surprise. “How did you reach us so quickly? Did Sgäilsheilleache send word?”

  “You are the hkomas?” Hkuan’duv asked. “Where is your ship? Where is Sgäilsheilleache?”

  The questions sounded cold even to Hkuan’duv.

  “We came upon and pursued a Ylladon ship, after hearing of a settlement raid.” His voice faltered. “They turned on us with no regard for their own vessel . . . and burned the Päirvänean.”

  Hkuan’duv blinked in chilled disbelief.

  “Our hkœda sent a swimmer,” the hkomas added. “Which sent the Ylladon to bottom.”

  “You had swimmers on a cargo vessel?” Hkuan’duv asked, and then waved off the question before the hkomas answered. “What of Sgäilsheilleache?”

  The hkomas scowled, not expecting this exchange. “He left with the humans and a majay-hì, traveling south along the coast.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yes, on foot,” the man snapped. “How else?”

  Shame flooded Hkuan’duv as he looked at the pinched, burned faces and frightened eyes of his people. Their ship had been murdered and a fourth of them with it, while he had sat waiting beyond the horizon for Avranvärd. She must have died in the battle, or she would have called him.

  “You have my sorrow,” he whispered and meant it. “We will take everyone aboard and get them home.”

  The hkomas closed his eyes and nodded.

  The skiff was loaded first with those with the worst injuries. Hkuan’duv waded into the surf as two more skiffs arrived. He pulled one ashore and began helping his people climb in. As the last boarded, Hkuan’duv reached out and touched the hkomas’s hand.

  “I have others of my caste on board. Please tell them I wait here, and to bring all of our gear. Tell them to ask the ship’s crew for as much white canvas or cloth as they can spare. Safe journey and peace to you.”

  The hkomas nodded. “And to you . . . wherever you walk now.”

  Hkuan’duv stood alone upon the shore, watching the skiffs rock through the surf toward the ship. Or was he alone?

  He cocked his head at footsteps coming along the beach behind him.

  The sound faltered several times in a fumbling attempt at silence. He did not turn until he knew this amateur skulker was within reach, and then he found himself facing a girl with a thick braid and oversized boots.

  “I am Avranvärd,” she said quietly.

  Hkuan’duv suppressed his surprise.

  “Why did you not board with your crew?” he demanded.

  After an instant of her own shock, she replied, “I belong with you—”

  “Why did you not contact me?”

  “It all happened too quickly,” she rushed on, her voice pained. “I was on deck amid the fire and could not abandon my duties to send word. I . . . I tried to help . . . but everything was burning.”

  Hkuan’duv breathed out through his mouth. This child was not to blame. She was not Anmaglâhk and never should have been placed in this role.

  “It is all right,” he said. “You followed your duty. No one would expect otherwise.”

  He waited as Avranvärd regained her composure.

  “Can you tell me more of what happened?” he asked.

  She sniffed and began recalling bits and pieces of the marauder vessel’s first sighting—and the strange behavior of Magiere and the majay-hì. She told of the an’Cróan woman dangled over the side of the Ylladon ship, cut loose to drown, and how Sgäilsheilleache had jumped overboard to go after her. Beyond these details, events had become too chaotic for the girl to follow as she recounted trying to put out the flames consuming the ship.

  Hkuan’duv listened silently with patience.

  “But on the beach,” Avranvärd added in the end, “Sgäilsheilleache abandoned us! I told him who I was . . . that Most Aged Father sent me . . . but he refused me and left with those humans.”

  Hkuan’duv’s lips parted in brief hesitation. “You did not tell him of my presence?”

  She straightened. “Of course not. My purpose was to watch and report to you, and nothing more. But now I am cut off.”

  “Do not be concerned. Join your crew, and you will be home again soon.”

  Avranvärd stared at him, and her young features went slack. “But . . . I am with you. I did just as Most Aged Father asked me.”

  Hkuan’duv was uncertain how to respond. What had this girl been promised?

  “I must travel quickly,” he explained. “My team and I go south. You must return with the ship.”

  “No!” she nearly shouted. “I am to be Anmaglâhk! Most Aged Father promised. I will help you track Léshil and the humans.”

  Hkuan’duv had no intention of explaining the skills required, ones Avranvärd did not possess. Yet, for all she had done and all she had been through, he pitied her.

  This selfish, defiant young woman would never be accepted as an initiate. Her spirit was entirely unsuitable. How could Most Aged Father promise such to someone who did not possess the necessary potential? But that lie was all Hkuan’duv had left to save Avranvärd from herself.

  “If you are Anmaglâhk,” he said sternly, “you will follow the request of your caste elder. Join your crew and return to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.”

  “No!” she cried angrily. Then she cringed, looking at him—not unlike an obstinate child second-guessing her outburst.

  “Should I escort you to the ship?” he asked.

  Avranvärd’s lips rolled inward, clenched tightly, but her eyes began to glisten. Before one tear could fall, she turned away and dropped to her haunches upon the rocky beach.

  Hkuan’duv remained silent, even as the skiff turned from the distant ship and headed back for shore with his comrades. In part, he regretted any ill feelings toward this girl, who had fed him information in the pursuit of his purpose. But kindness was not always a kindness. In the end, any solace he offered would only sting Avranvärd more.

  A’harhk’nis, Kurhkâge, and Dänvârfij jumped into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore.

  Avranvärd remained as still and quiet as a small stone on the beach. As Hkuan’duv’s companions joined him with their gear, the girl finally climbed into the skiff. The two crewmen pushed the boat back into the surf.

  Hkuan’duv faltered, calling out before he thought better of it. “In silence and in shadows . . . Avranvärd.”

  She did not turn to acknowledge him.

  “What was that about?” Dänvârfij asked, gazing after the girl.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

  This was the first lie he had ever told Dänvârfij. He had been asked to track—and perhaps betray—members of his own caste, including the honorable Sgäilsheilleache. Now Most Aged Father had made false promises to an immature girl. It was obvious that Avranvärd had been denied admittance to the caste once before. Why else would she have been offered this odd purpose, and
cling to it in frantic desperation?

  Hkuan’duv steeled himself against doubt.

  Most Aged Father had always placed the people’s welfare above all things. If he had done this, then he had a purpose.

  “Sgäilsheilleache will keep to the coast for as long as possible,” A’harhk’nis said. “If he and his charges seek a destination in any mountains, they must round the far end of the Blade Range. They have over a half day’s lead on us.”

  A sensible assessment. “Then let us begin,” Hkuan’duv said and turned south at a jog.

  But he glanced once at the ship, the living Päirvänean, still floating upon the sea. That tawny vessel, flickering with green in the sunlight, carried the girl with a twice-crushed dream.

  Wynn tried to hide her relief when Sgäile called a halt to the day’s trek.

  Walking all day after so much time aboard ship was an unexpected effort. By noon, her knees were trembling, and near dusk she was struggling to keep up. Even worse, no one else was having the same trouble.

  Leesil was only too glad to have his feet on dry land, and Magiere’s obsession gripped her even harder. Sgäile told her to slow down several times during the day. Even Chap had difficulty keeping ahead of Magiere.

  Trudging along behind everyone, Wynn had studied her companions. At times her sorrowful memories of the night before seemed echoed in their expressions. No matter how hard she tried, she could not put aside the fire and screams and smoke—and the sight of the ship’s tawny deck blackened and splitting beneath the flames.

  “Stop,” Sgäile called out. “We must make camp.”

  Magiere whirled around at the lead. “There’s plenty of daylight left!”

  “Preparations must be made before entering the mountains,” he said. “We will need this daylight, and more each day, to gather necessities.”

  Thankfully, Leesil dropped his pack. “He’s right. Help me start a fire.”

  He reached out for Magiere’s hand. She breathed through her mouth a few times, and finally let him pull her along.

  Osha gathered their gear by a fallen tree at the beach top, and Wynn crouched with him behind that barrier against the wind.

  “This will do nicely,” she said.

  Osha nodded, but he peered over the tree’s weather-bleached trunk, watching where Leesil had taken Magiere. Wynn hoped Leesil could keep Magiere pacified in their slow progress, and she set to inspecting their supplies and gear.

  So far, she’d had no chance to see what Leesil had salvaged from the ship. He had assured her that the elven quill, ink, and parchments Gleann had given to her were in one of the packs. Chap came to sit beside her.

  Wynn studied the sleeves of her coat. She had worn it a few times to satisfy Magiere, but the garment felt constricting and heavy—and she had lost Chane’s cloak in the fire.

  What of the cold lamp crystal?

  She blinked at Chap’s sudden question, and reached inside her coat to the pocket of her elven tunic.

  “It is safe,” she answered.

  Osha turned a puzzled glance her way, obviously thinking she spoke to him.

  “Never mind,” she told him. “Just . . . it is nothing.”

  He wrinkled his brow and went off to scavenge firewood.

  To Wynn’s surprise, Sgäile knelt down to examine the packs, and his tan, handsome face leaned close to hers. His manner had changed since their first meeting, though he remained reserved in her company.

  “Do we have a cooking pot?” he asked.

  Together, they pulled objects from the packs. Wynn found a large pouch of herbal tea, also several flints, coils of thin rope made from silken fibers, three water flasks—but only two wooden mugs. They would have to share.

  “Ah, here,” she said, pulling out a tin pot. “We can make tea, but we will need more fresh water soon.”

  “We will find streams along the way. But in the mountains, higher up, we must melt snow to fill our flasks.”

  Wynn looked at their few other belongings.

  “Leesil grabbed some tarp and two small blankets.” She sighed. “But no food . . . after all Magiere’s careful preparations. We never anticipated being shipwrecked.”

  Sgäile reached behind himself, beneath his cloak, and pulled out a folded square of green-gray. When he shook it out, it became a drawstring bag of reasonable size.

  “Come,” he said. “Fire will be more of a concern in the heights than water.”

  Wynn was uncertain of his meaning, but she followed him into the trees above the beach. Chap trotted after her.

  The landscape was appealing in a harsh way. White-edged waves tumbled against the beach below, driving foaming arches up the gravelly shore and sending soft spray into the air over craggy jetties. The rough foothills were covered with dense pockets of spruce and aspen, and Wynn spotted thick redwoods higher up. To the west and above, the snow-capped peaks of the Blade Range cut the sky. More directly south, she thought she could make out where they ended far away. Somewhere in that direction was their way into the higher mountains, the Pock Peaks.

  “Look here,” Sgäile said and crouched down.

  Wynn clambered along the sharp slant between the trees. Where he pointed she saw animal droppings at the base of an aspen.

  “From a deer?” she asked. “Are you going hunting?”

  “No, I will find sea life near the jetties. You can gather droppings and put them in this bag.”

  “Excuse me?” Wynn said.

  “If Osha or I have time, we will help,” Sgäile added. “This must be done every evening so long as we have opportunity. We will dry what we find by the fire.”

  Wynn wrinkled her nose. “You want me to collect . . . animal dung?”

  “Yes,” he answered, as if the reason were obvious. “From what little Magiere described, we will go far above any tree line, where there is little or no fuel for a fire. Herbivore droppings can be burned, and this may be our only source of heat.”

  “Oh . . . clever,” Wynn said, but it was still a disgusting task. She knelt at the aspen’s base, calling out, “Chap, time to put your nose to work.”

  Chap let out a rumbling whine and licked his nose at her, but he began poking about the rough slope. When Wynn looked up, Sgäile was gone. She picked up her first chunk of dung with only forefinger and thumb and dropped it quickly into the sack.

  She kept at this until daylight waned, following Chap’s huffs and barks to find fuel more quickly than she could by sight. In the end, they barely filled the bottom of the sack. Wynn decided to clean her hands in the sea and headed down for the beach.

  When she emerged on the rocky shore, she did not see their camp. Rather than stop to wash just yet, she stepped farther out and looked both ways. She spotted the old downed tree to the north and headed off with Chap following. Before she was a stone’s throw from camp, she slowed, and all thoughts of cleanliness emptied from her head.

  Sgäile and Osha stood bent over in hip-deep water where the surf was calmer behind a rocky outcrop. They were bare to the waist, their cloaks and tunics lying high on the beach. A pile of silvery fish wriggled on the rocks near their clothing.