Dustfall, Book One - Shadows of a Lost Age

by J. Thorn

  “Sit down, child,” said Sasha.

  Keana stood at her mother’s shoulder, eyes wide. “What happened, Seren?”

  “Both of you give her space,” Sasha snapped. “Let her get her breath back. Gideon, get her some water.”

  After Seren had drained half the skin of water that Gideon handed her, she looked up at Sasha. “We all waited for the command to kill them—or should I say all the warriors did. I watched from near your tent, I couldn’t, you know... If they were going to.”

  Sasha nodded.

  “But Jonah looked angry after Solomon spoke to him,” Seren continued. “And he stomped over to the son of the Bluestone chief. I thought that was it, he was angry and they were going to do it, but he spoke to the son, and I heard him say he didn’t want to fight and kill the Bluestone chief, and he asked the boy if the understood that. The boy was scared—terrified, I think—but he still nodded.”

  Seren looked up at the sky, toward the storm. “Well, all the warriors were ready, they had their weapons with them, and the Bluestone were just waiting for it. It was horrible, but then Jonah says that the Bluestone can be Elk. They need not die and they can join us, if they promise to not to hold it against him for killing Tikal, or something like that. I can’t remember the exact words.”

  “Can he do that?” Gideon asked, turning to Sasha, but Sasha was smiling, standing near the water’s edge with one hand on her hip and the other rubbing her forehead. “I thought they had to die?” continued her son.

  “Your father is chief of the Elk,” Sasha said, still smiling at the sheer cheek of her husband. Only Jonah, she thought, would go against the traditions of all the clans of the east. And he will have no idea of what he has done, either. This will roll like a wave across all the clans. “He does as he pleases.” She took Seren’s hand. “Thank you for hurrying down here to tell us of my husband’s craziness, Seren.”

  “I didn’t,” said Seren. “I ran to warn you about that,” she said, pointing at the sky. “Logan says it’s Dustfall, and it’s a big one. We have a few hours at most.”

  Sasha nodded. She had already guessed as much. “Come on. We better go and help sort out the chaos that is no doubt going on up there now.”

  As the four of them headed back up the hill, Sasha’s smile began to fade. How many were there in the Bluestone clan? Thirty? A dozen or more new warriors to the Elk warband, true, but thirty more mouths to feed.

  Jonah, I hope you know what you’re doing, she thought, as she trudged up the broken path toward the camp. But in truth, she knew he had not even considered such. Jonah, she knew, had spared them because he would not kill them. He probably could have cast them out, if he chose, but they would become Grey if he did, as some clans had during Judas’s rule. Homeless, unable to have a tribal name, unable to ever meet and deal with any other clan. Outcasts. Her husband would have wished none of that on anyone for the stupidity of one big-headed thug who thought to challenge him.

  Sasha sighed. A few hours ago she had been in dread of losing her husband, and she had been surprised at how the battle had gone, surprised at how deadly her husband had turned out to be. No, she had been shocked. Now the Elk had increased in number, and it would be her job to organize supplies for them all.

  Chapter 54

  “Where ya goin’, me little tart?”

  Gaston had heard that question a thousand times in the decades since the T’yun Horde slaughtered his family. Sometimes dreamless sleep whisked the question off into the nether, and other times, like tonight, he knew he would be forced to relive it. Gaston had tried everything. He drank tea brewed from ginger root. He ate the mushrooms that only grew in the northern shade. Nothing could stop the recurring nightmares except the light of the next dawn.

  “Leave me alone.”

  His answer always signaled the beginning of the end. The nightmare approached, and he would have to endure it yet again.

  “Yer mother squealed like a cut hog. So did yer daddy.”

  The man dragged Gaston by the neck, slamming him into a tree and dropping him to the ground. The boy saw his attacker in the glow of the moonlight, blood like spilled ink on his shirt. The raider stood over Gaston, grinning and twirling a knife in his hand.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The man threw his head back and laughed, a bark more primal than lighthearted. He used the back of his hand to wipe saliva from his mouth. “Cygoa is weak. T’yun takes what it wants.”

  Gaston used his heels to push himself backward. The man slammed a foot down on the boy’s calf to halt his escape. Gaston cried out.

  “Tis how nature’s always been,” he said. “The strong live off the weak.”

  He bent down and looked into Gaston’s eyes. The boy smelled whiskey and venison on his breath.

  “We’re your overlords.”

  Gaston twisted his hips and yanked his leg from beneath the man’s foot. He pulled himself up and dashed for the darkness of the forest. He heard the man laughing again. Two men stepped out from behind trees, blocking Gaston’s escape.

  “Bring him back to the house.”

  The two men obeyed the man’s order, each grabbing an elbow and carrying Gaston back to his house.

  The dream left out the time between the capture in the forest and the events inside the house. Gaston tried to remember it, hopeful that if he could somehow alter the memory that he would break free of its cold grip. But it never worked. The dream sped him along to where he lay bound in his parent’s bed, their mutilated corpses piled in the corner.

  “Gonna have fun with you, boy.”

  “Please,” Gaston said. “Let me go.”

  The man grinned and looked at the other two T’yun Horde raiders guarding the door. “Sure. I mean, we’ve had our fair share of the loot tonight, eh, boys?”

  The guards smiled, each licking their lips while staring at Gaston.

  “Go on. Let him go. Open the door.” The man chuckled at his own joke, looking at the binds on Gaston’s wrists and ankles. “Go on, son. We’re letting you go. All ya gotta do is walk through that door.”

  At ten years of age, Gaston had been no stranger to crying. But this came with a burning pain that would forever scar his psyche. He closed his eyes and felt the warm, salty taste of tears on his lips. Gaston tugged at the ropes, knowing they would be tight.

  “Last chance. If you stay, we’ll know you wanna play with us.”

  With his eyes shut, Gaston heard their belt buckles hitting the concrete floor. He felt their heavy movements as they shifted around the cramped bedroom of the house. Gaston tried to forget about all the memories the place held. He dismissed all of the good times spent with his parents and family. He didn’t want what was about to happen to be eternally tethered to his happy childhood.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  Gaston sensed the man’s face a mere inch from his own. He opened his eyes and then immediately regretted it. The man smiled, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “Nah,” he said. “Young boy like you’d fetch a nice price at market. I mean, you’re Cygoa. There’s that. But you’ll be good for stuff. Maybe not so good after tonight, but still good.”

  The guards snickered, and Gaston felt a cold blade slide up underneath his shirt where it stung his skin.

  “Are you Elk?” Gaston asked.

  The man turned his head sideways, and the knife stopped moving up Jonah’s chest.

  “We’re T’yun Elk,” he said. “What do you know of it?”

  Gaston’s breath hitched, and he felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since being snagged by them in the forest. The question had surprised the raider.

  “The Elk people are part of the T’yun Horde, right?”

  “I’m ready. Let’s do him.”

  “Hold it,” the raider said to the two guards. “I’ll say when its time.”

  He turned back to Gaston. “Do we have ourselves a little chieftain here? How’s a boy your age know all about the cla
ns tithing to the T’yun Horde?”

  “My father spoke of it,” Gaston said. He turned his head away from his parents’ lifeless bodies, happy they would not be able to see him suffer.

  “He didn’t say much,” the man said. “Then again, he kinda had a mouthful.”

  The men behind the raider laughed.

  “Looks like you just earned yourself a ride to the slave market. You’ll fetch us a nice swap.”

  Gaston sighed.

  “But we’ll have to break you in, first.”

  The man leaned over and Gaston felt hands tearing at his clothes.

  The nightmare careened off into Gaston’s psyche, where it would fester and rot. He would never forget the man’s face. How could he, when sleep brought it back to him every night.

  Chapter 55

  The road fell away as it deposited the caravan at the outer edges of Wytheville. The camp spread across a high plain, trees now holding more tattered, blue plastic bags than leaves. The stench hit Jonah before he had time to prepare for it. The smell of human waste and decomposing animal fur made him gasp.

  Over the years, the clans had claimed different sections of the ruins. Jonah remembered his father walking them through the center of Wytheville to the shop that used to repair carts. But raiders vandalized what used to be called a gas station, burning it to the ground several years ago. After that, Judas would lead them to any available space that was closest to the water pump. Jonah scanned the tents and watched the people move about like wispy apparitions, their flesh saggy and colorless. He would have to do as his father had done and identify a parcel of rotted earth for their camp. The Bluestone clan had swelled their numbers, providing a bit more safety on the road, but now they would become a liability and a drain on the limited real estate left for the Elk Clan.

  “There,” he said to a group of his five strongest warriors in a semi-circle behind him. “We’ll take that plot between the stack of carts and the brick wall. And we’ll take the length of the road alongside it, barriers both ends.”

  The warriors walked past Jonah, signaling for the rest of the caravan to follow so Jonah could make his customary entrance at Wytheville. He waited, smiling at Sasha and his children as they pulled his cart past.

  “Jonah.”

  He turned in the other direction to see Gaston breaking off from a family of five.

  “Please make sure the elders get situated in their tents.”

  Gaston shook his head and ignored Jonah’s command. “We need to speak. It’s important.”

  “Out here, it’s all important. What can’t wait?” Jonah asked.

  “After Wytheville, we—”

  “Go to Eliz,” Jonah said, interrupting Gaston.

  “We don’t have to. We have another choice.”

  “I know the shit you’ve been spreading. What you talk of is heresy, and it’s foolish. You don’t know the place exists. You’ve not seen it with your own eyes.”

  “Look at this,” Gaston said, extending his arm and waving past the remains of Wytheville. “You don’t know this exists from one season to the next. Or if Eliz still stands, for that matter.”

  “My lord. The other chiefs have been asking about your plans for the fire tonight.”

  Jonah turned away from Gaston and stared into Declan’s eyes. The boy spoke with an authority beyond his years. Jonah nodded and turned back to face Gaston. “I must take care of the clan. Leave me be.”

  “Our conversation,” Gaston said. “It is taking care of the clan. You need to listen to me.”

  “No. I. Don’t.”

  “Then you will at the fire tonight,” said Gaston. “There you will listen to your clan. As custom dictates.”

  Gaston stomped off, heading in the direction of another family with a cart. They greeted him with a smile and he turned to look at Jonah once more. “Tonight,” he said.

  Jonah watched him go, silently pondering the man’s behavior. Gaston had saved his life, and with that Jonah had left him be, feeling in debt to him. But to face him down as he had, in front of so many. No, the insult could not be ignored. This could not wait until the meeting later. He had to deal with Gaston now.

  Chapter 56

  Jonah stepped into the clearing. Behind him, a dozen other men came, trudging through the night, weapons in hand. Jonah stood facing Gaston, but kept his distance at ten paces, enough space to react if he had to. He stood there for a moment, his face lit by the orange glare of the early fire.

  The meeting of the clan would not take place for two hours, but Jonah had heard enough to know that he needed to face Gaston now, before it went to the clan. And then, after that, in the morning, he was expected to meet up with The Five Clans, and the council.

  Too much. This is too much, he thought. I’ve barely managed to get my head around what happened at Camp Creek, and the Bluestone clan—I haven’t even spoken to them since they joined, and now this.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, staring at Gaston, but the man barely budged and still remained seated by the campfire.

  “I had to do something before it was too late to do anything,” said Gaston. “I’ve tried to speak to you, but you won’t listen.”

  “Listen?” spat Jonah. “I’ve listened enough, listened too much.” He took two paces forward, his axe gripped tightly in his hand, and was surprised at how quickly Gaston got to his feet and reached for his own weapon. But what surprised him more was the reaction of the few other men nearby. They didn’t stand still or keep their distance. Four of them, men that Jonah would previously have considered men of the clan—his men—moved nearer to Gaston, and they weren’t facing the stranger, they were facing Jonah.

  That changed things. That made it more complicated.

  “My father, or Nera, or any number of others would have had you killed when you turned up at the village. I didn’t,” said Jonah.

  “No,” said Gaston. “You didn’t. And I’d hoped that was a sign that you could be persuaded to consider another path, a different one, but you are still stubborn.”

  “I’ve let you travel safely with us,” said Jonah, “when I could have cast you off at any time. I didn’t even stop you from spreading your words.”

  “No,” Gaston said, nodding. “That also. And I hoped that it was because you were at least considering what I offered, what White Citadel offers. But it isn’t so. Is it?”

  “And now you turn my own people against me?” Jonah asked. “Now you even think you can challenge me when you aren’t even blood. You’re Cygoa, a Far Northman. You’re not one of us.”

  “You allowed me to join,” said Gaston. “I am one of the clan now. I am one of you. Or am I not good enough? I was good enough when I saved your life.”

  Jonah could feel a rage burning now. He wanted to hit out, to strike this man that could cause so much harm to his clan, but inside, he cursed himself. It was not Gaston who was the problem, it was he. He had allowed this to continue, in his own stupid confidence that expected the clan to laugh at the man. But now, as more of his clan gathered on the other side of the clearing, behind Gaston, he realized that this would only end badly. At least a dozen were now behind the stranger, and who knew how many more wished to go there?

  He looked to the dirt floor, his mind swirling. This was not a decision for him. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it any more than he believed he was able to lead the clan in the first place.

  He took a deep breath, dreading saying the words that could bring death to so many, his own clan.

  But Gaston saved him from doing so.

  “I do not wish to challenge you for leadership of the clan,” said Gaston. “But I will be going to White Citadel, and some will be going with me. I wish all to be going. I want you to go.”

  The stranger lowered his weapon and reached inside his shirt, taking out the book.

  “This,” he said, raising his voice so those all around could hear. “This book has as much history as your own. And whether you b
elieve it possible or not, it is sacred, as is your own book. It tells of a place where there are no terrible changes in season, where you will not have to flee the cold of the winter to somewhere else every year. Where you can settle.”

  “It is forbidden to stray from our path to Eliz,” shouted Jonah. “Forbidden.” He turned, facing those around him, daring them to look away or face him. “Our clan has gone to Eliz every year for ages past, and it has sustained us, allowed us to survive. If we veer from this path, we risk everything.”

  “Only because your kind has never considered that there could be another way,” replied Gaston, also raising his voice.

  Jonah spun around to face him, raising his axe, but he did not attack. Gaston didn’t flinch but stood there, defiant.

  “Would any of you have even considered this if Judas still lived? No, I think not. He would have killed you. Well, I am not Judas, but I will uphold the ways that have kept us alive and strong for years beyond years. There is a reason things are the way they are, and a reason that we are the strongest clan in the forests.”

  “Not everyone wants to go your way,” said Gaston. “Some wish to leave.”

  Jonah glared at the men behind Gaston, hating them for their betrayal, but the anger was short lived. What if the man was right? Was he only following the path because it had been drilled into him? Was it possible that there was another choice that would mean they didn’t lose people each year? He didn’t know, but it was that ambiguity that made him fear the results of change. The path to Eliz was known. It worked. They survived.

  Jonah looked at the faces of the men behind Gaston and saw their fear. If Jonah said the word, his own warriors would attack, and this campfire would turn into a bloodbath. Jonah knew, by the numbers around him, that his warriors and he would win. They still outnumbered Gaston and his men by far, but what of the cost? Among those men facing him was Roke, Seren’s own brother. He was at the back, but he was there. Was Seren there?

  He cursed himself once more. How could he have let this go on? He had stupidly never expected his people to believe the man, foolishly thought that they believed in the path to Eliz as strongly as he did, but hadn’t he been force fed it by Judas his whole life?