by Phil Tucker
Irella’s eyes. The grind of blood-soaked sand beneath his sandals. The roar armies. The impossible, righteous power in which he had been steeped and which he had forever lost.
“You,” he said again, and his voice curdled with rage.
“Now, I know this is sudden, but hear us out. The past is twenty years dead, and there’s an innocent youth who needs our help.”
Acharsis’ words came out in a rush, but Jarek ignored them. He strode over to his wood-cutting ax and hauled it out of the stump. The handle was curved and treated ash, and the head was ugly bronze, blunted from overuse.
“Jarek,” said Acharsis, backing away with his hands raised. “I can come back later, if you prefer.”
He gripped the ax with both hands, raised it over his head and then hurled it, stiff-armed. It whipped through the air, head over haft, a flicker that Acharsis barely dodged by throwing himself to the ground.
The ax hit a tree behind him and sank three inches into the wood, causing the entire trunk to vibrate and leaves to shake loose.
Acharsis looked over his shoulder at the ax then back at Jarek. “Well, I see age hasn’t reduced your propensity for throwing axes at innocent trees.”
Jarek pulled his knife free from the sheath at his hip. “You dare come here after what you did? To my home?”
Acharsis scrambled to his feet, hands raised once more, and looked at the woman. “If you’re going to say something moving, now’s the time.”
The woman stepped into Jarek’s path. Her eyes were red and swollen, he saw, and lines of grief or pain had been cut into her face. “Put that knife away. Please.”
All he had to do was stiff-arm her out of the way. She was slender, unarmed. He was but three paces from Acharsis. Three paces from vengeance. But her glare arrested him, together with her fearless disregard for his knife.
He pointed it over her shoulder. “Do you know with whom you’re traveling? What he’s done?”
She stepped forward, into his space, forcing him back. “I know exactly what he did. And I found it in my heart to forgive him. Have you even heard his side?”
“His side?” Jarek laughed in disbelief. “I don’t need to hear his side. I saw it with my own damned eyes, woman. Saw our brothers and sisters murdered because of him.” His fury returned, murderous and black. “And I’ll never forgive him for that. Now, step aside.”
“I saw you disappear into the earth when you realized the fight was lost,” said Acharsis. “Saw you flee while the others died. I’m not the only one with sins to bear.”
Jarek clenched his jaw and stepped forward, but again the woman interposed herself into his path.
“No.” If anything, she was becoming calmer, more centered. “My husband is dead. My son has been kidnapped. We’ve come for your help.”
Jarek was torn. He wanted to bury his knife in Acharsis, but this woman’s presence was such that he couldn’t disregard her. “Help?” He wanted to laugh but didn’t have the heart. “You think I’m going to help you?”
“Yes.”
“And why, by the nine dead gods, would I do that?”
“Why?”
She looked around the small clearing at his ramshackle cabin, the half-finished extension, the dead tree, the discarded and rusted equipment, the collapsed forge. Only Alassa’s grave was well-tended.
“Because you need our help as much as we need yours. You’re not living here. You’re just waiting for death. And that’s got to be eating you up as much as the past. Knowing you’re wasting your talent. Your potential to make a difference. Killing time till you die alone in the dark. In the cold. With nobody to mourn you, nobody who will care that the son of Alok has passed away.”
Her words hit him like shards of stone. He backed away from her. “You know nothing of me.”
“I know enough. I know your history. I know what you did to the Athites when you helped drive them from the empire. Acharsis told me what happened at the Purging. I know that for twenty years you’ve hidden up here, feeling sorry for yourself.” She planted her hands on her hips. “But no more. I need you. Elu needs you. So, answer my call. Come down from this hole you’ve hidden yourself in and make a difference. Even if it’s a small one. Save my son.”
He felt exposed, without defenses. Old pain, inchoate rage, his bitterness and resentment – all of it came roaring back, only to shiver apart like urns of clay thrown against a wall.
“You presume too much,” he whispered.
“I presume nothing. Acharsis has sworn to aid me. With or without your help, we’re going after the raiders who stole my son. I’m willing to die trying. But if you help us, if you come down from your mountain, then maybe we’ll have a chance. And maybe you can find redemption.”
“Redemption?” He laughed, paused, then laughed again. “Woman, my god is dead! I felt him die within me twenty years ago, and I’ve not heard a whisper from him since. Alok is gone! How can there be redemption from such a loss?”
Now it was her turn to step back.
“And that man you’ve so generously forgiven? He as good as killed him! Alok and the other eight gods! The blood of divinity is on his hands, and you ask me to work with him? To help save a boy who means nothing to me?” Jarek shook his head. “I don’t know who you thought you’d find up here, what mad hope drove you up this mountain. But you were wrong. I’m not going to help you. I’m not the son of Alok. I’m nothing, and I don’t seek redemption.” His pain wrenched at his heart, urged him on. “So, turn around and leave before you discover just how low I’ve fallen. Before I force you to take back your words one at a bloody time.”
Acharsis stepped in front of her, his expression grave. “Enough, Jarek. Don’t speak to her that way.”
Jarek loomed over the smaller man and tossed his knife aside. “I could snap your neck right here, right now,” he said. “Close my hands around that scrawny neck of yours and squeeze. Put to rest the spirits of those you betrayed once and for all.”
“So, do it,” Acharsis said wearily. “I’ve lived with this guilt long enough. I came to apologize, but I can see it won’t make a difference. Let my death suffice. But if you kill me, if you deprive Annara of my help, then you’ll be duty-bound to take my place.”
Jarek stared down into Acharsis’ glittering eyes. For how many years had he dreamed of this moment of revenge? Over the years his script – the words he’d speak to crush his old friend’s spirit before tearing off his head – had changed and evolved, shrinking from an entire impassioned speech to nothing. All that mattered now was his death. His paying the price of his betrayal.
And yet, now that the moment had come, Jarek found that he couldn’t lift his hands. He didn’t want still another death on his mind.
Acharsis stared up at him, and something in the other man seemed to ease, tension leaving his frame as he accepted what was to come.
A form of peace.
A peace that Jarek knew he would never experience. That was forever denied to him.
“Go,” whispered Jarek. “Get the hell out of here and never come back.”
Acharsis studied him, and nodded. “All right.” He turned to Annara. “Enough. We tried.”
Annara nodded reluctantly, and then the pair of them walked away. Soon they were gone from sight, following the slender trail down the mountainside, their forms quickly obscured by the trees.
Jarek stood there breathing deeply, his shoulders rising and falling, finding it hard to catch his breath. Pressure was building in his head, as if it were trapped beneath a boulder that was shifting and settling ever lower, by excruciating degrees.
He paced to the far side of his clearing, then back. His heart was pounding so hard, he thought it might seize up. Pain shot down his legs, and he felt dizzying bursts of fear shoot through him.
Gasping, he sat on the oak tree and buried his face in his hands. His heart continued to race, his breath came in gasps, and his whole body shook, trembling as if it had been caught in an earthquake
. His mind leaped from thought to thought, memory to memory, never settling, never growing still.
Alassa’s touch had been all that could stave off these demonic attacks. But she was long gone, so he suffered alone.
How long he sat there, he didn’t know. When he finally lifted his head, he felt drained, exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his cabin and hide under his blanket, to curl up and sleep for as long as it took his memories to withdraw and be locked away once more.
Trembling still, he walked over to his ax and hauled it out of the tree. What arrogance, to think they could simply come here and summon him to do their bidding. That they could disdain his loss, his shattered soul, and tell him to find redemption in a meaningless quest.
He moved back to the tree and set to chopping, pouring his chaotic emotions into each swing.
The thock of the ax blade biting deep into the wood echoed off the surrounding trees.
Acharsis, he thought. He lived! And would go on living. What had held him back? Why hadn’t he cut the man’s head clean off his shoulders?
Splinters and wedges of wood flew. Jarek swung the ax harder and harder, driving it ever deeper into the heartwood as Annara’s words echoed in his mind: Waiting for death. Killing time. Alone. Cold. Nobody to mourn you.
Jarek gritted his teeth. Each swing of the ax was burying the head of the ax down to the haft. With a cry, he brought it down with all his strength, and the ash handle shattered.
He stumbled, fell to his knees, and cracked his head against the trunk.
Rolling over, he sat with his back against the rough bark and stared at the remnants of the ash handle in his hand. With a grunt, he tossed it aside.
The rest of the day yawned out before him, empty and desolate. And tomorrow, and the week after. Month after month, year after year, till he finally died.
The trick was to not think about it. To lose himself in routines, to simply exist in the moment. Hunting, skinning, repairing, tending his vegetable garden, hiking the mountains, cooking, washing, drinking.
Jarek hung his head and pressed the bases of his palms against his eyes. Curse them. Curse them for coming up here with their righteous hypocrisy, for shattering his calm, for stirring up old memories he’d hoped to never revisit again.
He rose to his feet and regarded the tree. The wild cuts of his ax had butchered the base, but he’d not be able to tackle the rest of it till he made himself a new handle. Which meant finding an ash or hickory tree, chopping it down with his hatchet, then splitting the logs till he found a good stave, which he’d then have to shave down, shape, sand, oil…
Jarek sighed.
He stood and entered his cabin, ducking his head so as to not crack it against the low lintel. In the gloom, he strode over to the rickety table set below the sole window and picked up a clay jar. The scent of harsh, bitter beer rose to his nose. There was enough left to promise a night’s oblivion.
He cast around for his filter straw but couldn’t find it. Impatient, he raised the jug itself to his lips, then paused and looked over its brim at his home.
Twenty years, he’d lived in this cabin. Six years since Alassa had died. Now, he saw it as Annara might. The rusted tools on the table, the boards stacked against the wall, the half-finished furniture he’d been meaning to work on for years. The mean bed, the filthy floor. The empty jars.
Jarek set the drink down. “Damn you, Acharsis. Damn you.”
He stood still and stared out the window. After a while, he reached down and stoppered the jar, then hunted around the cabin till he found his travel pack, into which he stuffed the last of his cured boar meat. He hesitated, then grabbed four empty water skins and a hooded cloak, rolled up his blanket, and selected a few other necessities.
He stopped in the doorway and grimaced, then turned to stare at the battered chest beneath his bed and bit his lower lip. He should leave it. It wasn’t like it had any power any more. It was just a massive block of stone; there was no sense in lugging it around.
With heavy steps, he walked back inside and knelt beside his bed. He hauled the chest out. It was dusty, and his fingers left dark streaks across the carved wood when he brushed the lid. For my husband, from his wife. A simple inscription on the chest that she’d carved for him, one that she’d later taught him to read.
He opened the chest and stared down at the Sky Hammer. Its haft was as long as his arm, its head a huge rectangle of dark, rippled stone, carved from a meteorite that Alok had sent down from the stars themselves. Once, it had glowed with Alok’s might, blazing an amber fire as the crystals trapped within the latticework of dark stone burned as bright as the sun. He’d strode through battlefields swinging it, wreaking ruin with each blow.
No longer.
He curled his hand around the familiar grip. It had been six years since he’d held it last – during the drunken rage that had lasted three days after he’d buried Alassa. He’d demolished half of his own house.
The memories were bitter and poignant, and he let them go. He moved to slam the lid down, to shove the chest back under the bed, but he forced himself to hold and inhaled deeply.
For my husband, from his wife.
He took up his hammer. He’d forgotten how heavy it was. He rose to his feet and slung it over his shoulder. The weight felt familiar, despite the passage of years. It seemed to anchor him to the ground.
A moment later, he was outside and hurrying across the clearing as if he feared something might reach out and grab him, haul him back into the cabin, and slam the door. He stepped over the oak tree. Only when he reached the trail did he turn to regard his home. Already, it felt distant, no more intimate than an overhang under which he’d paused to wait out a spell of rain.
Jarek hurried down the path. Acharsis and Annara had been gone perhaps an hour. They would be three, maybe four miles down the path, probably down where it leveled out along the river on its approach to Shan. If he ran, he might catch up with them before they reached the village.
Jarek rushed down the path only to see Acharsis and Annara sitting on a rock to one side only a hundred paces down the path.
He stumbled to a stop. “What are you doing?”
They rose to their feet, equally surprised.
Acharsis gathered his wits first. “To be honest? We were planning how best to approach you again.”
“Again?” Jarek raised his eyebrows. “My first rebuff wasn’t emphatic enough?”
Annara laughed. “And where are you running off to, then? Did you forget something in Shan?”
“I - well.” Jarek glanced at the strap of his pack. “I thought you were well on your way, miles down the path by now.”
“So, you were coming after us?” asked Acharsis.
“Perhaps. Yes.” Jarek looked to Annara but then dropped his eyes. “Your words hit home.” Should he explain why? He stared at the rocks of the path. How could he communicate the simplicity, the numbness, the beauty of solitude? “The idea of spending another twenty years up here alone felt intolerable.”
He thought of the jars of alcohol, the growing filth. How he’d taken to avoiding the people of Shan. What he was becoming. Then he looked up at them both. “So, I’ll come. But I’m not the man you once knew, Acharsis. With Alok’s death, I’ve lost my gifts. And my coming with you doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Acharsis.
“Thank you,” said Annara, and to Jarek’s shock, he saw tears fill her eyes. She took his hand in both of hers. “I have to rescue my son. The thought of him out there, right now, suffering... I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help.”
Jarek nodded gruffly. “I’ve not done anything yet. Thank me if we get him back.”
Annara released his hand and turned away, wiping at her eyes as she fought for composure. The two men stood awkwardly nearby, giving her time.
“So, what can you still do?” asked Acharsis.
“Still? Nothing.” Jarek fought to
keep the bitterness from his voice.
“That’s not true. I saw you hauling an entire tree back there.”
“Well, fine. Some of my strength remains. My… resilience. But that’s all. You?”
Acharsis shook his head. “Ekillos is as dead as Alok. I lost my gifts many years ago as well. Sometimes I can sense fonts of fresh water. I remember things at times that I couldn’t know. I’ve got a heap of apsu knowledge that’s of no use to me.”
Jarek gazed at Acharsis, fighting to reconcile his weathered face and frame with the saturnine being he had once been. “And your claim to fame?”
A flicker of anguish crossed Acharsis’ face as he glanced at Annara, and then he shook his head. “I’ve not had reason to find out in years. From my reception I’ve gotten wherever I’ve gone, I tend to believe that is… withered up as well.”
“Betrayal has its consequences, Acharsis.”
“It wasn’t betrayal. It was credulity on my part.” His words were ground out. “And let’s get something straight right here, right now. I take responsibility for what happened, but my father, my own god, died as well. I too lost my city. I lost my very sense of self, and while I didn’t withdraw from society to live like a bear in a cave, it’s been a wretched past couple of decades for me too. So, don’t act like I benefited or that I take pleasure in what happened. Because I don’t.”
Jarek raised his chin. “It almost sounds like you’re defending yourself. Tell me that isn’t so.”
“Defending myself? I - no.” The fire that had begun to burn in Acharsis’ eyes guttered out. “Never that. Sixteen years ago, I came within a day’s ride of your home to apologize to you, but I lost my nerve. It’s taken me the last ten years to muster the courage again. Now, here I am. I’ve crossed the face of the civilized world to come to you, to apologize and tell you my side of the story. Will you listen?”
Jarek’s heart beat like a gong. His whole body shuddered with his pulse. He didn’t want to hear what Acharsis had to say. Didn’t want those memories painted large once more. But how was he to travel with this man if he didn’t listen? How was he to refrain from throttling Acharsis if he couldn’t find a means to forgive him?
