Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2)

by Arbela, Zackery

  Brannegaia turned to the remaining captives, raising the gauntlet, the red glow giving her face a diabolical cast. "Does anyone else wish to test me?" she asked. The Cavaragi looked away, bowing their heads in surrender.

  She left without another word, the gauntlets glow fading, the severed head still clutched in her other hand.

  Brannegaia crossed the camp. Men cleared away before her, opening a path that none dared to block. Raised voices caught her attention. A great bonfire was lit in the center and before stood a great crowd of men. She heard her husband speak, his words muffled by the curses and shouts that met it. The Cavaragi chieftains...or those among them who still lived. Disarmed and defeated, they still remained defiant. Proud men, proud beyond all sense.

  Two Ghelenai appeared, holding a long wooden platter between them. "Here," she said, placing the head on it. "Bring it to them."

  The woman headed to the fire. A servant appeared with a bowl of water and a cloth, which she used to cleanse the head of blood and grime. The two women approached the bonfire, all men turning to watch. They raised the platter before Ganascorec, who took up the head and displayed it before the Cavaragi chiefs.

  "Whose son is this?" he asked with a laugh. No answer came. "Very well, I'll have them kill another!"

  One of the chiefs then let out a great wail of grief. He fell to a knee, cursing Ganascorec and every Eburrean who ever lived, wailing again as the King hurled the head into the flames.

  "So," he declared to the others. "Will you yield? Or will you join his fate?" He pointed at the distraught father, a man broken by grief.

  One by one the chieftains of Cavarag knelt, bowing their heads and accepting Ganascorec as their lord. For the lives of their sons, they submitted to his will.

  Ganascorec let out a great howl of victory, one echoed a moment later by his men. The camp echoed with the sound of victory.

  Brannegaia heard this. And she smiled.

  Hours passed. The King met with the Eburrean chieftains, accepting their praise of his victory as his rightful due, taking note of those who enthusiasm seemed less than heartfelt. There were many among their number whose love of their lord and Master was no greater than that felt by the recently defeated Cavaragi. Yet among their men, at least for this night, the name on everyone's lips was Ganascorec, victor of the great Battle of Lake Talaar. Already word spread in all directions south to Eburrea, north and east to the other lands of Aelen's Folk. Within months it would be on the lips of kings and potentates of distant lands across the sea. His name would be on their lips as well.

  In the morning both camps would be struck. The remnants of the Cavaragi host would straggle home, while the clans of the Eburreans would return in triumph, back to their farms and fields and families until the day came when their King called them forth again. Ganascorec himself would return to the Aranac stronghold at Bellovac.

  He ended the night with a fiery speech. All eyes were on him. The silver crown that was the mark of his kingship all but glowed in the fires of the camp and none could tear their eyes away. He ended with a proud vision of glory, of an Eburrea whose borders stretched to the sunrise. A glorious adventure, he promised. "Who's with me?” he asked at the end.

  "I AM!" roared back the chieftains and their men, their misgivings overcome if only for this moment. Glory, honor and all the rest...almost worth the price of submission to Ganscorec. To the fear of Ghelenai knives that backstopped his rule.

  His work done, the King retired to his tent. He stepped through, greeted by the sight of his queen lying naked in their sleeping furs. A sight that haunted the dreams of any number of men in the camp. After such a day as this, Ganascorec deserved to celebrate more than anyone, and what better way than in the arms of the most beautiful of women?

  The tent flap closed behind him. He walked past the furs and waiting wife, dropping onto a nearby stool. His head fell into his hands for a moment and he out a long exhausted sigh. When he looked up, the brave King was gone. In his place was a old man, bent and bitter with regret and confusion. "So many dead men," he said. "I killed so many."

  "It was war, my love." Brannegaia sat up, pulling one of the furs about her body with visible irritation. "Men die in battle."

  "Not battle," whispered Ganascorec. "Slaughter." He shook his head, reaching for a thought, something on the edge of his awareness, like a voice shouting from a distance through a mist. Trying to get his attention, telling him something was wrong... "They sent an offer of peace," said Ganascorec. "I remember this. Over the winter. It was...a fair offer..."

  "Merchants give offers," said Brannegaia. "You are a King. You take what is yours." She looked at the crown on his head, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  "The others...they did not want this," said Ganascorec. "The chieftains did not want war. I...did not want war."

  He looked towards her. "You...want this. All those dead men..."

  "I've heard enough." She rose swiftly and stepped behind her husband. Her finger touched lightly against the silver crown, and faint glow enveloped it. Ganascorec stiffened, a shock running through his body, setting every nerve alight, walking on the edge between pain and pleasure.

  "Who am I?" she asked in a soft voice.

  "My love..." he whispered back. "My queen..."

  "Do you trust me?"

  "Yes..."

  "Do you trust me..." she repeated, raising the pressure slightly.

  A wave of pleasure ran through his body. "You and no other," he mumbled.

  "The others plot against us," she said. "The chieftains. They deny your glory."

  "My glory..."

  "They want you to fail. But I want you to win. I won't share my bed with a man who isn't a King."

  "No..."

  The pressure increased again. "Do you want lose me?" she hissed.

  "No..." A line of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  "They must be punished. Find the traitors." Her voice was insistent. "Find them. Bring them to me. I will give their hearts to the Three."

  "Yes...I will find them..."

  "Good. Now rest, my love, for you have worn me out with your passion."

  "Rest..." And Ganscorec saw his wife lying beneath him, mouth open as she cried out in ecstasy with each thrust of his hips...

  He fell off the stool, sprawling on the floor of the tent, letting out a low moan. Brannegaia made sure he was lying on his side, his mouth open and pointed down in case he vomited. Then she dropped the fur draped about her shoulders, replacing with with a simple dress and fine cloak draped across a nearby chest. She looked back at the king passed out on the floor, an expression of pure contempt crossing her face.

  Brannegaia went outside. The guards outside the tent stiffened as she passed by. She paid them no mind. No warriors accompanied her, men cleared a path as she walked, averting their eyes, muttering greetings or compliments as she passed. She held them under her thumb, no less than she did the King.

  He own tent was pitched some distance away. Two warriors stood guard there, one a burly grizzled veteran, his face almost hidden beneath the shadow cast by his great helm. The other was a slender youth, his face smooth and unmarked, almost feminine in beauty. She looked on both with appreciation. Such contrast...old and young, experience and innocence. Pleasures of a different kind.

  She was a woman, she had her own needs. The victory was as much her's as the Kings...more in fact, when all things were considered. Why not celebrate? She haunted the dreams of men across the land. Tonight she'd make the dream of these two a reality. Of course, once they were done serving their queen, that dream would turn to a bloody nightmare...the last thing she needed were unseemly rumors getting about.

  "Come with me," she told both men before entering the tent.

  She let the cloak fall from her shoulders and undid the laces at the front of her dress. "So," she asked. "Are you ready to serve your Queen?"

  "Are you ready to serve our Master?" came the reply.

  "What?" She tur
ned about.

  The young warrior shimmered, his form changing and shifting to that of another man. "You!" she exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Lady Brannegaia," said Nerazag, the last remnants of his disguise fading away. Beside him, Tarazal removed the helmet.

  She laced up the front of her dress. "I did not know you were coming," she said, quickly regaining her composure. "Why did you not send word?"

  "Apologies." Nerazag bowed his head slightly. "There was no time." He noted her state of dress. "I see you are enjoying the perks of power."

  "I am the true power in this land." She picked up the cloak and slipped it about around her shoulders, her skin crawling under Nerazag's gaze. Men had always looked at her, it was a constant in her life. The price of beauty was the never-ending desire of those who wished to possess it. Every man who had crossed her path and dare raise his eyes to her face would have the same look in his eyes. Desire, lust, adoration..it was something in their heads. And once she understood this, it became a tool to be grasped for her advantage.

  But Nerazag was different. There was no lust in his eyes, no desire, just a cold detachment, as if Brannegaia the Fair was some strange beast in a pen. He did not see her as a woman, he did not desire her, she had no value beyond the advantage an alliance brought. It was a strange thing...and disturbing. She glanced at his grizzled companion and saw the same thing in his eyes. The same missing thing, the emptiness where desire should have been.

  Emptiness. There was nothing she could use to control these men. It was true the day she met Nerazag, so many years ago, when she was a Ghelenai of low rank and little power. It was true when she entered into this arrangement, purging the order of her rivals and then making it the power in the shadows. The gods stopped speaking to her long ago...but the gifts Nerazag provided more than made up for the loss.

  Yet still, every time she met with the man, fear curled in the back of her mind. "Do you require food? Drink? Shelter for the night..."

  "We can skip the usual pleasantries," said Nerazag.

  "Very well," she replied. "What do you want?"

  Nerazag rubbed the back of his head and for a moment looked weary. It almost made him seem human. "You have done well," he said. "The power of your husband grows with each day. Eburrea is strong, Cavarag is weak. Our Master is pleased. A strong Eburrea suits his interests."

  "Convey to your Master my gratitude for his aid..."

  "But," said Nerazag, cutting her off without a second thought, "a threat has appeared, to our interests and yours. There is a man called Azaran. He will have arrived in the south, likely in the land of the Colamnacs. Where he goes, chaos follows. We want him found."

  Brannegaia nodded slowly. "I see. What has he done?"

  "That does not concern you," said Tarazal with a stern glare.

  Nerazag glared at him. The warrior bowed his head, though he was hardly contrite. "He is a threat to our interests," Nerazag said to Brannegaia. "You have heard of the events on Tereg earlier this year?"

  "Yes." Brannegaia nodded. Traders brought the news across the sea about the fall of Enkilash. Those with an interest in foreign trade celebrated when they heard. "Some sort of revolt."

  "The lord of the Isle was overthrown," said Nerazag. "He was also a friend and ally of my Master. Azaran is the one responsible."

  "I heard it was one of our own, an Eburrean exile..."

  "He took Enkilash's place, but the man who did the actual work was Azaran."

  "Azaran is not an Eburrean name. Where is he from?" Then she smiled. "Ah, right. He is one of your own..."

  "A traitor," growled Tarazal.

  "Who will be brought to account," Nerazag added. "With your help."

  "If he seeks to raise revolt against the King," said Brannegaia, "he will find no friends among the Colamnacs. Their chief doesn't breath or blink without Ganascorec's permission. Why would he land there? Better to try his luck among the Mabhrenas, they might be willing to listen..."

  "He travels with a Rhennari," said Nerazag. "Whose birth clan is the Colamnacs."

  "A Rhennari?" Her face curdled with anger at that. No matter how hard the Ghelenai tried to crush those vermin, they kept crawling back. And they still had a hold on the thoughts of the people. A Rhennari at loose in the south was problem. And if this Azaran was with him and was as dangerous as they claimed...

  "I will send word in the morning," she declared.

  "Don't you mean the King will send word?" Nerazag said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  "The Kings lips speak, but my words come out. This Azaran will not live to see the end of the summer..."

  "No!" Tarazal spoke up. "He must be taken alive."

  "You do not command me!" Brannegaia snapped back.

  Tarazal met her glare. "No one kills Azaran but me," he said.

  "The Colamnacs may not care about that," she responded angrily. "Once swords are out, men do no listen to reason."

  "Any man who has a hand in his death," Tarazal declared, "will die at my hand."

  Brannegaia was set to to tell him what he could do with his hand, when Nerazag stepped in. Silencing his companion with a look, he said, "Tell your people in the south to take by by stealth, if they can. But in the meantime, send word to Bellovac and order the Hawks of Bronze to march south."

  "The Hawks are sworn personally to Ganascorec," she protested. "They will not set a foot beyond Bellovac until he orders them personally."

  "Then make sure he does so, personally." Nerazag's voice displayed a hint of irritation. "Have him ride out at dawn."

  "People will talk..."

  "Then cut out their tongues." Nerazag changed tack. "The Master has been most generous with you, my lady. The artifacts you and your's bear grants powers far beyond what the Ghelenai of old possessed. But they are a mere fraction of the power you could wield. Bring me Azaran, alive and breathing, and you will receive gifts that will make the artifacts you bear now seem like trinkets fit for the lowest of peasants. You will be a goddess made flesh."

  It was an incredible offer. "All this for one man?" she asked.

  "He is not like other man," said Tarazal.

  She nodded slowly, not even giving the pretense of thinking it over. "The King will leave in the morning. I will send word to the Colamnacs. Azaran will be yours."

  "Excellent. I will ride with you," said Nerazag.

  Brannegaia arched an eye eyebrow. "You might stand out."

  Nerazag shimmered, changing his form back to that of the young warrior. "I ride as part of your honor guard," he said.

  She turned to Tarazal. "And you?"

  "I leave in the morning," came his reply.

  "When you send your riders to the south," said Nerazag, "Tarazal will go with them. Make it known that when he speaks, it is with the voice of the King."

  "As you wish." She paused a moment. "What did he do?" she asked. "It must have been something terrible, for you to make this effort."

  Neither man answered. They turned and left the tent.

  Segovac pointed to the north. "There it is," he said. "Aeresia."

  They were perhaps half a mile from the coast, walked through meadows and past groves, the air bearing a trace of the salt tang whenever the wind shifted. Ahead a low hill rose up from the earth. Halfway up the slopes was a stone wall three times the height of a man. Behind it was a town of sorts - low, long-roofed houses, workshops and at the summit a large hall of wood and stone, its roof made of wooden boards overlapping each other and painted gold and green. In the late summer light the place seemed almost to glow.

  Two roads led away from the place. The first departed from a southern gate towards the sea. The other was the one upon which they walked. Azaran stood on it, looking at the hall, his mind assessing the strength of the place and coming away duly impressed. If the place was manned at full strength, the defenders would inflict at least three casualties for every one of their own. Maybe more, if they were suitable motivated...


  When your enemy is strong in his front, attack him from behind.

  Fields and farms stretched away to the north and west. To the north Azaran saw cook fires from a village, not more than an hour's walk from the stronghold. He wondered how much of their harvest ended in the bellies of the warriors within the walls of Aeresia. They couldn't have kept much for themselves.

  Statues were mounted along the top of the walls, depicting men in armor, beasts of field and forest rising up on their hind legs and women holding sickles in one hand and wooden staffs tipped with three strands of ribbon in the other. Azaran turned to ask Segovac the meaning of this, but held his words at the pensive look on his friends face.

  The road from the south terminated at a narrow gate made of ancient planks of oak reinforced with iron. The front of the door was painted a brilliant cerulean blue, with a glowering sun face in the center, staring at the world with endless disapproval. Men stood atop the gatehouse, pointed at the two travelers marching towards them. Azaran's ears caught the sound of voices shouting orders.

  The golden sun face split in half as the doors swing outward. A line of horsemen trotted out, warriors clad in shining mail, holding long spears in their right hands and round shields on their left arms. They came down the road, forming into two lines that blocked the travelers path.

  The spears remained upright, but Azaran saw the tight grips the men kept on them, ready to snap down at a moments notice. He saw the suspicion in their eyes, the tension in their bodies, far in excess of what two lone travelers on the road warranted.

  "Strangers," said one of the warriors. "Declare yourselves! Why do you walk the lands of the Colamnac clan?"

  Azaran waited for Segovac to respond, but he said nothing. "We are travelers," Azaran said, holding back his annoyance. "We come in peace and ask only for shelter within your walls."

  The leader of the warriors shook his head. "There is no hospitality in Aeresia for those not of our blood. Turn back the way you came, you will find no shelter among us."