Her stomach rumbled but Hastra dared not call for a halt, so she ate bread from her bag. Two weeks and the food was still good, though it was hard. She kicked a root and stumbled but Zelma steadied her.
At the head of the long rise Hastra spied the pile of weathered stone named the Old Tower. Where Withlings used to go to see and hear instruction or speak rituals. Now it was the dead end of the trap Corgren sprung around them. They staggered over the path against wind that snapped and swirled across the end of the headland that thrust into the booming sea.
Horns and Troll-wolves howled. Much closer now. "We must hurry now, sister."
Zelma shivered as she walked; her eyes wide.
Hastra brushed hair from her face. Was she cold or afraid? The edifice loomed out of the gloom of dusk in the east. Distant lightning flashed across the Bay of Storms from the north and lit the roofless tower-top. It defied wind and weather. Gusts tugged at the low scrub-trees scattered around its feet. This isolated end of nowhere might be the end of them. If only Eloch...
The travelers hurried into the shadow of the Old Tower and took refuge from the blasts in a shallow alcove. Snippets of howling and horns broke through the roar of wind. Their pursuers were coming now. There was no escape. Hastra hugged herself but still shivered. "Now what?"
"I don't know except go up." Howart steadied himself with a trembling hand on the stone. He leaned against the wall, slid into a crouch and laid his head on scratched arms folded over his knees. A ragged sigh escaped from his thin lips. "Just need to rest a while."
Hastra peered along the road. They were all spent and bound to die. She touched the death wound from which she'd risen. "What is needed is given."
Horn blasts floated on the wind.
Zelma's lips quivered and dark circles ringed her eyes above pale skin. Sprigs of her hair waved from beneath her gray hood. "They're coming now."
Hastra nodded. Even Zelma's hair seemed faded. "They've found our scent. We can't stay here long. If we are needed atop the tower, then let's climb."
Zelma choked, then found her voice. "Then what?"
Hastra embraced her sister. "We'll pray, Zelma. All will be well in the end. We're here for a reason just because we're still breathing when we should be weeks dead."
Zelma forced a thin smile through her tears. "It will never be the same as it was, but perhaps we'll see better atop the tower."
Zelma's hair fell across her face as she touched Howart's head. The Grendonese man remained still. "He's fallen asleep."
Hastra's head whipped around at the close sound of horns. "Trolls are near. It's time."
Zelma jumped and Howart started.
The gaunt man stood. "We must go and seek Eloch's guidance."
They scurried from the alcove and climbed the stairwell that wound around the tower's girth. Wind buffeted the surviving Withlings and the storm thundered in the bay as they fought for each ascending step. They ignored their weariness as horns sounded closer.
Hastra staggered. Surely they had time. She thrust her hands before her and pulled for the next step as rain pattered on the stone.
Horns sounded closer along with hounds baying, clear and constant, as the din of pursuit carried over the wind. They grappled their way to the top and knelt with their cloaks twisting in the violent wind.
Snarls announced the arrival of trolls. The troll-wolves howled. Corgren's voice rose in the wind. "Quickly, take them."
Hastra raised her eyebrows to Howart and Zelma. There was fear on their faces. If only they could meditate in this din. "Pretend it's the Hall of Silence."
Hastra shut her eyes and raised her hands. What is needed is given and she needed focus. She ignored the troll boots scraping on the steps. She breathed and reached for practiced calm. "Move in me, O Eloch." She exhaled. Welcome warmth bloomed at the edge of her awareness and she waited, rather than reach for it in conscious thought. Warmth swallowed her fear and grief.
Hastra's eyes blinked open and shut as her usual trembling at the presence of Eloch took hold. Her arms shook and her body quaked. Zelma and Howart undulated like grass in the wind.
The clouds spun into a whirlwind that detached from the main storm and churned toward the tower. Hastra closed her eyes, calm as a sleeping babe. Indecipherable words erupted from her mouth.
The wind rumbled and drowned the clamor of trolls. Hastra's body stilled with the wind and her eyes opened. Light glowed in the spinning gust. They were protected from their enemy. Her arms dropped to her sides. She fell over and stared at the shape moving amid the light and whirlwind.
Beyond the silence within the whirlwind, Corgren cringed at the stairwell. He stretched out his arms and shouted unheard words. He shook his fist with a grimace and fled.
"You have come as children in need. Will you serve on?" The voice suffused Hastra with the rich whisper of peace and inexorable power.
Eloch's offer flushed her chest with warmth. Hastra smiled as tears spilled from her eyes. "I will serve." Zelma and Howart answered the same.
"Zelma Vorcinni, should you choose to follow, to you shall be given the task of protecting for long years that which shall come to you in time. You shall want for nothing, not even companionship in desolate places."
"Howart Balto, should you choose to follow, to you shall be given the task of hiding against chaos what shall come to you after a while. No power of time or change shall pierce the bulwark about you in the midst of confusion."
"Hastra Vorcinni, should you choose to go, to you shall be given the task of labor against innumerable foes, yet you shall find rest and plenty in the midst of want and danger."
"And now, my children, reach to me if you will come and be comforted and healed..."
At Eloch's urging, the three Withlings stretched out their hands as one.
The whirlwind fell away.
Hastra rose on one elbow amid a grass covered field at dusk. "Zelma? Howart?" She sat alone with her bag that contained her food and the Book of Prophecies.
Cool wind rustled her torn blouse. Hastra rummaged through her pockets and found a pin she had left there while sewing - how long ago was it now? Too many days had passed. She shrugged and pinned the rent edges together.
Hastra stood and got her general bearings from the sun. West felt like the right direction for now. She walked with her bag of provisions over her shoulder. "I may not know where I am, but what is needed has been given. Bless my sister. Bless Howart. Wherever they are. We're all that's left."
The End
THE BOW OF DESTINY
Sample Chapter
When his dead father touched his hand, Athson almost dropped the arrow. He squeezed his eyes shut. Ignore him. Focus. He took a slow, deep breath. Not this, not now.
"That's it, slow breaths, steady your hands." His father helped him nock the arrow.
"You're not here. You're dead." Athson whispered lest he startle his prey. He didn't need help with the arrow.
"And Athson, make sure you keep that secret I trusted with you." Ath's hand dropped away.
"I've held my tongue." Athson's lip quivered and he forced his hands steady. A memory and nothing more. That's what he got for forgetting his medicine. But he had kept the secret over the years since his father taught him the bow that day.
Athson knelt on one knee with an arrow nocked and gauged each target. Wind gusted and flattened grass in its weaving dance. Waves boomed against the Sea of Mist's rocky shore beneath the cliff's edge two hundred strides distant. The pheasant was trickier, he decided. The rabbit would do. His gaze shifted between the two animals. No shakes, no more old memories while cleaning the kill. He brushed the vane feather with his thumb. But the memory didn't bode well.
Athson eased into his stance at the shaded edge of forest, waiting unseen by his prey. The wind fell still. He drew the arrow to his cheek, aimed, and exhaled. A litter of kits hopped near his intended meal. He blinked. No killing a mother. He shifted targets and released.
The arrow sprang
away in silence and pierced the green-feathered head.
Athson strode from hiding, high grass tangling at his shins. The rabbit and her litter scrambled into their hole. "You’re safe this time."
He squatted by the pheasant and plucked out chestnut tail feathers. When he cut the striped neck, Athson shut his eyes. The less blood seen, the better, to avoid the memories. Athson yanked his arrow loose with a grunt. "Sarneth sends me to the middle of nowhere so I waste time hunting." Father plucked the arrows with more care. Maybe his father should have used other things with the same care.
He thrust with his belt-knife and gutted the bird. Torn innards stank. Images flashed behind his eyes of bodies writhing as weapons were yanked free. He swallowed. Why this, why now? He sat on his heels and counted the months since his last fit. Over a year, and his elvish tincture of Soul's-ease lay forgotten at the ranger station. Not good. He needed that medicine. He rubbed his temples. Fits were hard, but seeing things later confused him. He sighed. Days of parsing reality lay ahead. Gweld, his elven friend and fellow ranger, would be disappointed at his laxness with the medicine.
He buried the bird's offal well away from his camp. Athson brushed a hand over his eyes with a sigh. No shakes, no memories. He took a deep breath and marched away, teeth grinding. He needed to seek peace and not anger. The wind picked at foliage and birds called in the forest. But tension clung to his shoulders.
At his campsite Athson hung his kill over his fire from a makeshift spit. Early chill sent him gathering more firewood, a worthless duty at an empty border. He eyed the stand of fir trees, doing anything but thinking. They were a good windbreak but wouldn't guard against that night's nip. Building a canopy of fir limbs near the fire at the opening would warm his cold feet.
The breeze rose stiff with the promise of a frigid bite later as Athson gathered armloads of deadwood. "I'll need that canopy." The gust blew stiffer.
Athson frowned at the smoke marking his position for miles when he approached his camp and muttered in dissatisfaction. Rocky ground and no smokeless pit-fire. He shrugged off the irritation. "There're no trolls this far west in the Auguron Forest."
Racing the dusk while gathering firewood was all the excitement Athson encountered. He snagged another fallen limb, hurrying more now to check his roasting pheasant than to beat nightfall.
The wind shifted and carried the hint of smoke from his campfire. Sudden nausea left him unsteady. Memory of other fire on a different night quickened his heart. Athson snagged the last of the wood for his final armload.
"You take this bag and hide."
"Leave me alone mother, you're long gone." Athson coughed and stumbled over roots.
Smoke curls through the thatch over the rafters. His mother shoves food and a coat into the bag.
That wasn’t now, that was ten years past. He groaned and blinked a tear away.
Athson sank to his knees and coughed against choking smoke. His mother acts calm but he sees fear in her wide, hazel eyes and her rigid movements. Smoke thickens and flames roar beyond the door. The warning horn blows. Screams erupt outside and mingle with joyous snarls of attacking trolls.
Athson's mother heaves him out the window. "Hide as best you can."
They both cough. Athson nods and opens his mouth.
The door slams open. His mother snatches an iron skillet and cracks a hobgoblin in the face. The attacker collapses but others leap through the door. His mother yells and flails with the skillet.
Athson ducks away and runs into the night amid the dancing light of burning Depenburgh.
He coughed and shook his head and found himself on trembling hands and knees. The armload of wood lay scattered where he had fallen. He swore and ground his teeth. "Get up and see to the bird."
Athson lunged from the ground, forgetting his wood, and wrenched his gaze away from the mound of the pheasant's buried offal. Dinner needed attention. Athson's dragging boots as he stumbled along sounded like shovels biting the dirt.
"This is taking too long." Athson's father stands massaging his back, his haggard face smudged with soil. The other men pause, sweat drenching their chests. "We need a pyre for this many bodies. We need to search for prisoners." He means his wife, Danilla. The men nod and shift scarves over their faces against coffin flies and stench as they trudge off in search of surviving wood.
Athson braced himself against a tree. "Go away, father. You're dead." Fir limbs caressed his face and clothing as Athson marched into his camp. "Forget the past. They're gone!" He kneeled and reached for the spit with a trembling hand.
The wind shifted and billowed smoke into his face. Athson choked, coughed, and turned his face from the smoke.
Ath scratches the dark bristles grown over his face during the days of troll-hunting since they set out from Depenburgh. "We take back Danilla and the others now. If the wizard arrives, we have no chance." Athson's father hisses plans to his seven comrades - huntsmen turned would-be rescuers. Bon-fires flicker along the Funnel where the trolls hold their prisoners at their altar. Ath fixes each man with his dark-eyed gaze.
Athson grabbed his head. "Go away, leave me alone!" His shout echoed through the forest, startling a dove. They were all gone, but he'd still never tell anyone.
Whispered plans meld into action as Athson's father leads the other hunters toward the leaping troll-fires. Shouts and clanging steel announce the raid. Shadows weave among the blazes in the night wind. Fierce snarls answer angry shouts. Trussed prisoners wail for help.
Ominous silence interrupts the clash of weapons.
His father shouts. "Run, Athson, run!" The desperate command echoes in Athson's memory.
Another voice laughs in mockery. "Run, Athson, run."
Athson crouches and hugs himself. The fear and cold bite him into shivers.
Another man stands visible in the troll camp. His bald head glistens in the firelight while his hooked nose lends him a lingering sneer. "I'm Corgren. Come into my camp, boy, and I will welcome you. You will be safe. I can help you."
Athson squeezed his eyelids but the face remained. He would find the wizard—no, he couldn't seek revenge. He wouldn't even search. Athson hunched and gasped.
Athson wants to comply, wants a warm fire but hesitates.
"If you don't come, bad things will happen." Corgren waves trolls into the concealing heather.
The choice hangs in the air like meat smoking over a fire. Athson weighs his choices and almost shouts for his father.
"Run, Aths—" His father's voice cuts short in mid-shout with a muted grunt. The frightened boy trembles.
Trolls snort and tramp into the undergrowth.
Athson bolts into the night and falls into a crevice along the Funnel's rocky edge. Trolls miss him in the dark. The next day, Athson finds his father's broken sword in the abandoned camp.
Athson startled from his fit. He squatted among the trees, poised for dashing away as his escape from trolls faded. Athson's chest heaved. Sweat beaded his face and stained his tunic. He gripped handfuls of dirt and fir needles.
"You are safe in Auguron, among the elves. Heth and Cireena raised you. Mother, father, and the others died years ago. You have friends like Gweld who helped you." But he would never forget their names or their faces. Danilla. Ath. He exhaled raggedly. He hugged himself and rocked while he hummed a lullaby his mother sang when he still clung to her skirts.
He swore again. The bird hung unturned, scorching over the fire. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to his burning dinner.
Meat sizzled over the fire as Athson knelt and tended his meal. His trembling hands grew still over slow minutes. Memory-fits! They froze him like wounded prey. They were gone. Why now? Not the dead bird. The smoke? "There's no peace in western Auguron either. It's what I get for a good deed with that rabbit." He pulled an angry frown and threw a pebble into the fir trees.
Athson turned back to his fire. A two-toned dog sat by his pack, brown sides flexing with each pant. "Spark?"
The do
g’s pointed ears twitched at his name and his tail thumped the ground.
Athson squinted at the Mountain Hound’s shiny black back. "Where’ve you been?" He knew the answer. He always saw Spark after a fit. "You’re not real." But the dog comforted him. Still, it was bad when Spark appeared. Soul's-ease left the body too soon.
Athson sighed and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Calm returned, and he went back for his dropped armload of wood. He gathered what he could find as dusk faded to night. On returning to camp, he fed the fire and then from his pack pulled dried fruit brought to the ranger station from the trading post in Afratta days earlier.
He tore a leg off the pheasant and tasted hot meat, then offered some to Spark. As usual, the dog took nothing. Athson scratched the dog's ears and sighed. "Well even if you're not real it's still good to see you."
After eating, Athson built up the fire and warmed his hands against the chill sweeping inland from the Sea of Mists. The moon rose in the east, lighting the promontory named Eagle's Aerie, rumored home of a Withling. The pinnacle jutted into the sky above the surrounding fir trees, stretching north into the Sea of Mists' crashing breakers. He spied in the glow of moonlight the slender shadow of the endless stair stretching like an age-line along the cliff's face.
Gweld and other elven rangers had told him stories about Eagle's Aerie when word of Sarneth's assignment to Western Auguron got out. Tales spoken in the barracks hinted of hidden treasure and attempts to climb those stairs, but no one ever completed the task that Athson heard. Athson snorted. "Wild tales made up for my benefit."
Rangers told Athson that travelers reported an old woman of the mystic Withling order appeared in the area, lending aide or leading folks to dire ends. "And Withlings are good and wise agents of Eloch? Thanks for the fool's errand, Captain Sarneth." Athson tossed a stick into the fire with an irritated grimace and saluted the air. Sarneth either didn't trust Athson with more serious assignments or suspected him for some reason. How could Sarneth know more about him than Athson told or knew of his past?
What Is Needed: Prequel 2 of The Bow of Hart Saga Page 4
