Child of a Dead God nd-6

by Barb Hendee

  Startled by this sudden shift back to him, Osha swallowed.

  "Three seasons before I went for name-taking, two of the caste came to my enclave with a message for our clan elders. This had never happened before. And such a pair-two Greimasg'ah at once-Great Eillean, Leshil's grandmother, and Brot'an'duive. Everyone was in awe of them, and I had never seen anyone treated with such respect. I could barely bring myself to peer from around the tree of my home, and with all my body, I wished to be like them."

  Osha lowered his head, lifting only his eyes at Wynn with a halting whisper, "Not an honorable reason."

  Wynn swallowed her reservations and reached for his hand. "To strive to excel… especially in service to others… is always honorable. Your family should be proud of you."

  Through the glow of the cold lamp crystal, Osha stared at her. His hand started to tremble, and he slowly pulled it from hers. Long muscles in his forearm clenched tightly. Wynn realized she had never seen his bare arms before.

  "But," she began, "are there not other ways you could have earned the respect you desire… other ways to serve your…"

  She trailed off as puzzlement spread across Osha's long face.

  "Never mind," she finished.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked.

  "No, I do not think so."

  He nodded and stood up. "Then you should rest. I will sit vigil."

  Was he not going to sleep? Wynn knew it was pointless to argue.

  She unrolled one of the mats and a blanket on her bunk ledge, realizing she was tired. When she settled there, Osha had dropped back to a cross-legged position in the middle of her cabin.

  Wynn had assumed he would be outside in the hall, or in the next cabin over, with his own door wide to keep an eye on things-but not in the middle of her own room. Suddenly sheepish, she pulled the blanket up and rolled toward the cabin's hull wall.

  A few moons past, Wynn would have been shocked at the prospect of sleeping in the belly of a living ship with an anmaglahk just beyond arm's reach. But she closed her eyes, feeling safe, and quickly drifted off.

  Sgaile awoke the following dawn, dreading every step to come. He breathed in the fresh air, trying to center himself, but the name the ancestors had given Leshil was always in his thoughts.

  Leshiarelaohk-Sorrow-Tear's Champion.

  A half-blood had been recognized as a full an'Croan. But even such an honor from the ancestors did not justify what Brot'an'duive asked-no, insisted upon.

  Only Anmaglahk and clan elders went to the hidden place of the Chein'as-the Burning Ones.

  Sgaile's own grandfather, Gleanneohkan'thva, had once gone to them, but only in the company of Brot'an'duive.

  Leshil stirred in the bedroll he shared with Magiere and gently gripped her shoulder. Chap remained curled up at their feet.

  Sgaile got up and looked about, wandering a short distance from their camp. Years had passed since his last journey through the southern coastal region of his people, but he had always appreciated the terrain. Coarser than the inlands, this place held its own beauty.

  Once beyond the shoreline trees, the granite shelves of the foothills climbed like behemoth steps toward the mountains. Their deep shade of blue-gray was dotted with stands of evergreens and patched dusky moss. The occasional firs or aspens grew at subtle angles from sea winds. The forest here was not as thick and varied as in the heart of his homeland. With a vast sky overhead, he could see for leagues, until he looked upslope to those stepped foothills. Thankfully, they would not go as far as the peaks. With his back to the camp, Sgaile fished into his tunic's front and pulled out what Brot'an'duive had forced on him.

  A lump of basalt, worn smooth by river water.

  He turned it in his palm, studying its hand-etched patterns and swirls, and not one mark repeated. Between the tangled lines were dots and independent strokes, but he had no idea what the markings meant, and the Greimasg'ah's instructions for its use did not yet make sense.

  "Breakfast?" Leshil called from the dead campfire. "Or should we travel a ways first?"

  Magiere was already reaching for her hauberk and sword. Chap stood up, yawned widely, and stretched all his limbs, one by one.

  Sgaile sighed, tucked away the stone, and returned to his charges. Another unpleasant task awaited before they could move on.

  "What's wrong?" Magiere asked.

  Sgaile found her watching him suspiciously. He went to his pack and retrieved two long strips of black cloth and unbound the rope tied to the pack.

  "Another requirement… one you will not like."

  Magiere tensed, and Leshil's eyes fixed on the rope.

  A direct approach, clean and quick, was best with Magiere. Sgaile held up the strips of cloth.

  "We did not travel far before making camp. Our true journey begins today, but only if you adhere to what I require. The place we seek is a guarded secret, known only to some elders of the aruin'nas and the an'Croan… and those who have proven themselves among the Anmaglahk. I cannot allow you to know its location."

  "What are you talking about?" Leshil asked.

  "You must wear blindfolds," Sgaile answered. "All of the way, both in and out. You will swear on your honor not to remove them… or I will not take you another step."

  Magiere snorted, black hair loose around her pale face and hard eyes.

  "This just keeps getting better," she muttered. "You think we'd ever agree to this?"

  Chap crept in without a sound.

  As Sgaile looked into the eyes of this strange majay-hi from the outside world, he felt even more uncertain than when the dog had faced him down in the skiff. More than once, Chap had demonstrated ways to communicate his expectations. But would the majay-hi now support him in gaining what he needed from Magiere and Leshil?

  Sgaile had no wish to defy one so deeply touched with the element of Spirit.

  "You will have a guideline," Sgaile said to Leshil, holding up the rope. "The going will be slow, but it will be your loss if I am forced to turn back. So choose now if you will trust me once more, as you did outside my home enclave, when you relinquished your weapons."

  "Yes, and that turned out so well!" Magiere snapped. "We were nearly attacked by your clan."

  "I protected you then," Sgaile said calmly. "I will protect you now. This journey is for Leshil, and if he agrees, you will abide by it as well. Or we turn back."

  Magiere faltered and glanced at Leshil.

  Sgaile knew that on some level, in spite of her volatile fits, Magiere could bring herself to trust him. She had done so before.

  Leshil had not donned his hauberk yet, and the wind rippled his over-worn shirt. He stood looking from Magiere to Sgaile in doubt, until Chap circled around behind Sgaile.

  The majay-hi released a low rumble ending in a snort. He lifted his muzzle and huffed once at Leshil.

  Leshil inhaled. "All right… but we'll need walking staves as well."

  He reached out and took the blindfolds. Magiere turned away, hands on her hips, but offered no refusal.

  Sgaile swallowed hard and glanced down at Chap. The majay-hi wrinkled his nose.

  "I must speak to him as well… alone," Sgaile added.

  "To Chap?" Leshil asked. "What about?"

  "I understood his agreement," Sgaile answered. "I have learned that much in our time together, as well as how much he understands… and that he has his own reasons in all things."

  Magiere looked over her shoulder, though she said nothing concerning this open admission that Sgaile was aware of Chap's unique nature. Leshil simply turned away to gather blankets and bedrolls.

  Sgaile stepped off toward a cluster of pines and motioned Chap to follow. He dropped to one knee, his back to the camp, and waited as Chap circled around to face him.

  "Hear me," Sgaile whispered. "Your kind… or those who at least share your form… have guarded my people as far back as any can remember. On their blood, you will swear.

  "Reveal nothing of the path we take-or what you le
arn-to anyone. The place we seek must remain hidden and guarded. I take Leshil this way because I gave my word to do so, but I do not know why we are here. If you would have him continue, as you seem to wish, then do not hinder me in this. Swear to me."

  Chap shifted his weight, glancing around Sgaile toward his companions. When his eyes turned back on Sgaile, his jowls quivered slightly-almost a snarl but not quite. Finally, he blinked and huffed once.

  Sgaile had witnessed this enough times to know what it meant, and he sighed in relief.

  "My thanks."

  He stood up, looking upslope through the granite shelf foothills. He focused upon the shortest peak and barely made out its sheared and ragged top-the mouth of an old volcanic vent at its crest. From any farther distance, it looked no different from the others.

  Chap had already returned to camp by the time Sgaile walked back.

  Chane lost track of the passing nights. They trudged east through the Crown Range, into valleys and gorges, and up through saddles and passes between the high peaks, one after another. They paused only when the sky lightened ahead, quickly setting up camp and crawling into their protective tents to fall dormant. They rose each dusk to move on, over and over again.

  The five remaining ferals were weakened with starvation. Chane fed them tea every few nights, and less often, Welstiel rationed out small spoonfuls of life force hoarded in his brown glass bottles. And then the terrain began to change.

  The sight of dried, bent trees became more common, as well as open ground between the patches of snow. Clumps of grass and weeds and thickets soon filled the landscape, until the monotony of frozen earth and broken rock was almost forgotten.

  "The coast cannot be far," Welstiel said one night, gazing ahead through a rocky saddle between two mountainsides. "Stay with the others and make camp. I will scout ahead a little ways."

  Chane did not bother answering and turned about, searching for an optimal place to pitch their tents. The dark-haired young woman hovered behind him, always of more use than the others. He wished she could speak, perhaps tell him of her scholarly pursuits before…

  Welstiel barked at the others to stay in their places and headed off.

  Chane pushed away his wandering thoughts, but hunger for intelligent discussion quickly returned. He closed his eyes, envisioning Wynn's oval face and bright eyes.

  A patting sound jerked him from his fantasy, and he opened his eyes. The woman had crawled halfway up a rock-strewn slope and was crouching before a sheer outcrop. She slapped the stone to get his attention. Some semblance of wit still remained within her.

  Chane headed upslope. She had found a place where he could tie off their canvas in a lean-to against the stone and make them shelter from the sun. She took one folded canvas from him, and they set to work. He had nearly finished when she reached for a piece of rope in his grasp to lash it around a spike driven into the ground.

  He suddenly pointed to himself, his voice more rasping and hollow than usual.

  "Chane… I am Chane."

  He did not expect a response. He was only desperate for some intelligible sound after another night of the ferals' animal noises and Welstiel's long silences. But she stopped struggling with the rope and looked up at him.

  Her hair was a disheveled tangle, and in the death-pale skin, he spotted hints of a smattering of freckles. She pointed at herself.

  "Sa… bel…"

  Those slow syllables, spoken with such difficulty, startled Chane. He crouched down, and she shifted away from him.

  "Sabel…," he said, "that is your name?"

  A hundred questions filled Chane's head, but he held them at bay. She sniffed the air around him, head tilted, then flicked a hand toward the eastern sky and went back to struggling with the rope.

  Chane did not need to look. Gray light grew behind him over the peaks.

  The other ferals were fidgeting. The curly-headed man began trying to crawl across the ground with muffled whimpers of frustration. At first, Chane thought they were agitated by the coming sun, but then he saw what the man was crawling toward-and froze in surprise.

  Welstiel's pack sat propped against a spindly gray tree.

  The well-traveled undead sometimes set it down within sight, but he never left his belongings in any unsafe place. Even in Venjetz, when they had been locked out of the city and lost nearly everything, Welstiel had held on to his pack.

  The stocky feral struggled on the ground, watched closely by the others, but he made no more than an inch or two of headway. Exhaustion and starvation drove him against the power of Welstiel's command, as he knew where the bottled life force was kept.

  In their time together, Chane and Welstiel had maintained the courtesies and formalities of two noblemen-now turned Noble Dead. Chane had once respected Welstiel's privacy. But he had begun to see Welstiel's pretense of cold-blooded intellect as nothing more than illusory posturing. And as for Chane…

  He might be nothing more than a beast beneath his own veneer, but he had never sunk to believing his own pretense. Not as Welstiel did.

  Chane had willingly served Welstiel's madness in that monastery, but he could not stop seeing these ferals for who they had once been. Like the ghosts of lost scholars haunting dead flesh now filled with nothing but longing and hunger.

  A worthless concern just the same. They were lost.

  But Chane still did not care to watch Welstiel butcher another one. He jogged downslope, snatched up Welstiel's pack, and turned away.

  A hand latched onto his ankle, closing tight enough to make him buckle in pain.

  Chane tried to pull free of the crawling monk, but the man would not let go. The feral lay on his stomach, muscles taut and shaking as he fought against his maker's command, but his colorless eyes were locked on the pack in Chane's arms.

  Chane stomped down on the man's wrist with his free foot. The feral squealed, and Chane wrenched free of its grip.

  All the crystal-eyed ferals around the clearing watched him. When he headed up toward the lean-to tents, even Sabel's gaze fixed on what he was carrying.

  Chane felt the bulge of hard objects in the pack, too many to be just the brown glass bottles. His curiosity turned once more to Welstiel's long-hidden possessions.

  The closest Chane had come to uncovering their secrets was the night he first saw Welstiel's extra bottles sitting beside the pack. He had not summoned the nerve to dig into it with Welstiel sitting vigil just up the monastery stairs. And the later night on this journey, when he had stolen one brown bottle, he was in too much hurry. He did not hesitate this time, and threw back the cover flap.

  Beneath two remaining bottles, wrapped in Welstiel's spare clothing, Chane saw other items. The first three were already familiar.

  The walnut box held Welstiel's feeding cup, along with the looped tripod rods and white ceramic bottle. Beside this rested the domed brass plate, which Welstiel used to scry for Magiere, and his frosted light-orb with its three glowing sparks like incandescent fireflies. Chane set these carefully aside.

  For the moment, he ignored the two books and a leather-wrapped journal. But the next item he gripped was cold metal, and he glanced nervously toward the glowing horizon. He pulled out a hoop of steel with etched markings.

  Its circumference was slightly smaller than a dinner plate. At a loss, he was about to set it down when he smelled an odor akin to charcoal. He turned the steel hoop and dim light from the sky reflected upon its surface-except for the deeply etched lines and symbols. Their inner groves remained black, and he sniffed the object. The charred odor definitely came from the hoop.

  He had little time left, for certainly Welstiel would return before full dawn breached the horizon, but Chane's curiosity nagged him. Holding the hoop to his lips, he licked an etched line running evenly around its outer side. It tasted of bitter ash and char. He set the hoop with the other items and peered into the pack. He caught a glint of copper or brass on one rod, and then movement caught his eye.

 
Sabel crept in, just out of reach, and pointed east as she sniffed the air. She whined and pointed more forcefully.

  Welstiel must be returning.

  Chane quickly stuffed all the items into the pack, leaving the clothing-wrapped bottles to place on top. He was about to return the pack to its resting place when Welstiel appeared over the top of the saddle ridge, looking haggard and drained. Chane scrambled to the nearest lean-to with Sabel on his heels. He crouched in front of its open end, setting the pack down.

  As Welstiel entered the clearing, he gave no notice to the ferals cringing around him in the half-light, and went straight for the spot where he had left his pack. When he discovered it gone, he spun about.

  "I had to move it," Chane rasped. "Even under your command, one of them tried to get to it."

  Welstiel looked upslope and spotted his pack beside Chane.

  "You took your time," Chane added. "Any longer, and you would be greeting the sunrise."

  Welstiel frowned, but seemed satisfied.

  "Get inside," he ordered, and waved the ferals up to the tents.

  They scrambled for cover like dogs, and he picked his way up the slope to Chane.

  "We are not far from the coast," he said. "A few more nights at most."

  It was good news, but Chane's mind was elsewhere.

  Aside from the three short rods he had not had time to inspect, he had heard a dull knock when he set the pack down. Something else rested in its bottom; something that he had not yet seen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Three days of being dragged behind Sgaile wore Leesil's patience thin. Blindfolded, with a rough walking stick in one hand and a rope gripped in the other, he trudged onward, with Magiere behind him. Chap ranged somewhere nearby, his claws scrabbling over dirt and stone.

  Chap assisted with warning barks whenever they strayed or came upon uncertain footing. Sgaile carefully steered them around anything larger, but the going was painfully slow. From time to time, Magiere settled a hand on Leesil's shoulder.

  They exchanged few words on this blind side journey, and Leesil wondered why he had ever agreed to this. Why did he keep giving in to whatever bizarre requests Sgaile made?