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

by Arbela, Zackery

  "We have traveled far," Azaran responding, glancing at the other warriors. Six in all. They had the advantage of speed and height on those horses and reach with those spear. But if he got in close, those spears would be useless. They'd have to drop them and pull swords. Time enough for him to pull one or two out of the saddle, maybe sink his dagger into a horses neck... "Would you have us sleep under a hedge to avoid the rain?"

  "A hedge is better than a grave." The leader lowered his spear. "Turn back, or stay here forever. Your choice."

  The Segovac laughed. "I thought I knew that voice! Is that you, Bellari? When did you get so fat?"

  The leader stiffened at that. He peered down at Segovac, staring at his face. "Segovac?"

  "Yes, It's me. Back from the dead, or Tereg, which is the next thing."

  Bellari shook his head. "When did you come back?"

  "A few days ago. We've been walking through the countryside." Segovac's smile faded. "We saw some things that won't be quickly forgotten."

  "Most men have, these days." Bellari spun the spear about and thrust it point down in the earth. He removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face close in age to Segovac, marred by a prominent scar running down the left side."

  "Who gave you that love bite?" Segovac asked.

  Bellari didn't smile at the joke. "You shouldn't have come back. Eburrea is no place for men like you these days."

  "I can only imagine," Segovac said. "I'm likely the only Rhennari for a hundred miles in any direction."

  "Pick a direction and keep going. You may get to keep that honor."

  Segovac raised his arms, holding them out, palms up. "Will you kill me then? Or will you call a Ghelenai to do the deed?"

  Bellari reddened at that. Behind him, his men muttered darkly at the mention of the witches. "I...do not..."

  "Let me spare you the effort of thinking. I call on the hospitality of the clan, Bellari. Three days and three nights under your roof. Saerec and his servants do not look kindly on those who ignore the old ways."

  Bellari pursed his lips. "Who is your friend?" he asked, pointing at Azaran.

  "My bodyguard," came Segovac's reply. "As you said, these are dangerous times for men like me."

  Bellari nodded at that. "I cannot say yea or nay, holy sir. That is the right of the chief."

  "And who is chief these days?"

  "Belandec," answered Bellari. The distinct lack of pride in his voice said more than words.

  "Belandec." Segovac repeated the name.

  "Since the spring."

  "What happened to Cassevalaris?"

  "He died, along with both of his sons, from some fever. The Ghelenai were summoned but they could do nothing."

  "Or so they said," muttered one of the warriors. He then fell silent under Bellari's glare.

  "We swore the oath before him and the King," Bellari said. "Afterward he went north with Ganascorec to fight against Cavarag. He only returned two days past."

  "Then by all means, take me to the worthy Belandec," said Segovac.

  Bellari nodded once. "As you wish."

  Segovac and Azaran walked towards the gate. One of the riders galloped ahead into the stronghold. The others formed an honor guard of sorts, two riders behind and three in front. Bellari rode in front, and did not look back once at the pair.

  "This Belandec," asked Azaran, speaking in Teregi so the warriors could not understand, "can he be trusted?"

  "Does a worm have a spine?"

  Azaran was confused. "Then why go into this place? He is likely to betray us."

  "Oh, most certainly. I would be surprised if he didn't try something."

  "Then why are we walking into a trap?"

  "Because sometimes, friend Azaran, the only way to disable a trap is to trip over it." That infuriating serenity radiated from the Rhennari. "We are in the hands of Saerec now. It will happen by his will."

  "Saerec is your god. And this seems daft."

  "Then spend the night outside, if you prefer. But choose now, we come upon the gate."

  And indeed they were walking towards it. More men were gathering at the top of the gatehouse, pointing at Segovac and talking to one another.

  Azaran thought about leaving. But his feet kept walking forward.

  The walls loomed ever higher the closer they got. Azaran noted with disapproval the way moss clung to cracks between the stones, in some places hanging down in long green beards, giving the place a verdant appearance entirely at odds with its defensive purpose. The gateway itself was perhaps eight feet wide, large enough for carts to pass through single file. Any assault on the front would be funneled through this choke point. He glanced up at the top, where curious men clustered near the edge, looking at the new arrivals. Replace them with fellows knocking over bowls of boiling oil or heavy rocks and this place would turn into a deathtrap.

  They passed through the gate and entered a wide courtyard of sorts, large flat stones laid down on the ground with the ubiquitous moss clinging to the cracks. Surrounding it were houses and workshops of various purposes, stone walled and roofed with thatch. The walls were covered with thick layers of whitewash, on which were painted images of men and beasts and some things that defied understanding to his mind. On many walls fresh patches of white could be seen, splashed over portions of mural that someone of greater power found offensive. On one house the layer was thin enough that the image below could be faintly seen - the spiral of Saerec.

  The riders peeled away, headed to stables somewhere beyond the courtyard. Standing at the far end of the courtyard was a group of men, finely dressed as the Eburreans reckoned such things, their trousers clinging tight to their legs, the calves wrapped in straps woven in intricate patterns. Over this were long-sleeved tunics, open at the throat, belted about the waist with leather belts or red-dyed ropes. Some among them chose to go bare-chested, the better to display the blue and black tattoos curling across chests and arms. Many sported armbands of silver and gold and from the way others were giving way suggested they were men of rank and importance in the clan. Older men sported long beards, often with silver ornaments woven into them, young men went clean-shaven or sported long drooping mustaches.

  Standing in the center was a man who seemed gray in every sense of the word, despite the gold ornamentation. He was old, his head bare save for a few wisps of hair about the base of his skull. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his mouth turned downwards in a permanent grimace, his eyes sagging and filled with an exhaustion that sprang from the mind as much as the body. His tunic was a deep blue shot through with silver thread, a golden medallion hung from his chest, yet the color seemed to be leached from both, so that they seemed as gray and worn as the beard hanging down his chest.

  Segovac walked towards the fellow. "Follow me," he told Azaran. "And say nothing."

  "As you wish."

  Segovac turned to the chieftain. "Belandec," he declared. "Well met, Chieftain."

  "Rhennari." The gray man nodded curtly. "Would I could say the same."

  Silence followed the reply. Belandec met Segovac's gaze then looked down, as if the effort drained him.

  "We heard you fled these shores," he finally said. "Tereg, it is said."

  "I have returned," Segovac responded. "The earth and sky of Eburrea is written in my bones. They ache when I am away for too long."

  Belandec shook his head. "You should have stayed away. The death mark is on the head of every Rhennari, so Ganascorec decreed. Even now Ghelenai knives are coming for your blood."

  "Then where are they?" Segovac looked to his left, then his right. "I see no Ghelenai. If they seek my blood, let them come forth!"

  "Do not tempt fate more than you already have. Leave now, go back the way you came. No man will stop you."

  "I was born of this clan," Segovac declared. "I am a Rhennari of Eburrea. So I live and if Saerec wills it thus, so I shall die."

  "And will Saerec strike down the black knife when it comes for your throat?" asked Beland
ec, displaying a moments fury. "Will Saerec save our sons as they die in the blood pit?"

  "Saerec gave men strong arms and the will to use them. Fear only has the power you give it."

  "Bah!" Belandec spat off to the side.

  Segovac paused a moment, looking at the men standing behind the chieftain. Most could not meet his gaze, poorly hiding the shame they felt. "By ancient law long hallowed," he said, "a traveler may approach the door of the clan hold, and so long as he comes in peace be granted three days shelter within the walls. To do otherwise is contrary to the will of Saerec and his servants - or the gods, if you prefer. I ask humbly to share in the hospitality of the clan, for myself and my companion."

  Belandec looked set to refuse. Anger twisted his features for a moment. Then he sighed, the exhaustion returning. "As you wish," he said. "Three days you shall have. Welcome to Aeresia."

  He turned away, stumping back towards the great hall at the top of the hill.

  The other high men of the clan followed in their chieftains footsteps, through a few lingered a moment, nodding at Segovac or muttering words of greeting. He stood there, waiting until the last had turned his back and begin the walk back to the hall.

  "Well," asked Azaran, "now what?"

  "Now we make our way to the great hall." Segovac pointed at the top of the hill.

  "Shouldn't we have gone with the chieftain?"

  "Our path is different. Follow me...and try to be patient. This might take a while."

  Segovac set off into the settlement, headed down one of the narrow streets, his boots tramping on dirt paths packed down by hundreds of feet and churned to mud in some places. Most of the homes, for those not fortunate enough to live in the great hall, lay along the western slope of the hill. Stone walled, roofed in thatch or wooden boards, the murals on the whitewashed walls slightly faded from the summer sun.

  People emerged from the doors as the two men went by, men in tunics and trousers, man still with their tools in their hands, women in kirtles belted about the hips. They watched Segovac walk by with a mix of fear and wonder, as if some creature from ancient legend had come back to the world of the living. Which in a sense was true - men like Segovac were nothing more than a memory to these folk. Killed or driven into exile these past twenty years...those who were young would know them only by the tales of their elders. A part of their past, cut away and now returned.

  A young warrior stepped into their path. Tall, proud, a sword belted at his side. He clutched something wrapped in cloth to his chest. Azaran stepped before Segovac, reaching for his own blade, muscles tensing for the coming fight...

  The warrior held out the bundle he carried. "Rhennari!" he declared. "A blessing for my daughter!" He pulled back path of the cloth to reveal an infants face.

  Segovac stepped past Azaran. "Be patient," he muttered, approaching the warrior. His finger traced a spiral above the infants forehead, as he muttered a prayer to his god. "Saerec guide your footsteps to the righteous path, may you never stray." When he was done, he blessed the warrior as well.

  After that they couldn't go more than a few steps without someone approaching Segovac. "Rhennari," said a woman, "say the words for my father, who died this spring..."

  "Rhennari," said a middle-aged man, "My son is ill in the mind. Cast out the demons that afflict him..."

  "...bless my house, for there is great misfortune afflicting my family..."

  "My husband quarrels with his brother. Help them reconcile..."

  "I killed a man and the guilt weighs me down. Show me the way back to the righteous path..."

  "My husband drinks and it makes him into a beast..."

  "Say the words, Rhennari..."

  "Free us from this shame..."

  "Teach us..."

  "Rhennari..."

  "Rhennari..."

  "What is Saerec's will?"

  "Help me, holy sir..."

  And for each one, Segovac had time. No matter how small the request, he stopped. Sometimes to offer a prayer, a blessing, or a promise to come by later to the home of the one asking. Sometimes all he gave were a few words of advice, pure common sense to Azaran's ears, but from the way the locals received it might as well have been written across the sky in words of fire. He found the whole thing rather strange, even absurd. Yet there was something else as well, a look in the eyes of these people, a need for guidance, for something that would stand firm come what may. The world was changing around them and the costs were paid in blood more often than not. Here was a link to their past, a reminder of what they once were and what they might become. A reminder that the old ways, the old traditions would endure, no matter what the King decreed or the Ghelenai demanded.

  It was a strange thing to Azaran's way of thinking...and oddly humbling. He was a man alone, in ways few others could understand. Who he was, who his people were, what their old traditions were (assuming they had any worth keeping) lost behind a great wall where the memories should have been. He was flesh and bone, a man fully formed, yet in the ways that mattered most he was incomplete, a dying leaf adrift on the wind, blowing through a forest of deeply rooted trees.

  These people knew who they were. They knew who their ancestors were, their forefathers trod these lands, as one day their children would do the same. They had a past and from it came a present and a future. And he wanted the same. He wanted it with an intensity that was frightening. No matter what terrible things might lie beyond that wall...

  Stop thinking, said the silent passenger. Listen. The answers are there.

  He shook his head. "I hear nothing," he growled.

  They made their way past the houses. Segovac wearily placed a hand on the shoulder of an old man, uttering words of encouragement in a voice raspy from overuse, promising to come by soon to perform the rites for his wife who died over the winter. "Rest easy," he said. "Saerec knows her worth."

  "I thank you, holy sir. Others have forgotten the old ways, but I have not..."

  "They will be reminded, should Saerec will it."

  The old man shuffled away. Segovac let out a sigh. "That was a lot of work."

  "The chieftain may not welcome you," Azaran said, "but everyone else things different."

  "Yes. Reason for hope." Segovac turned his face towards the great hall. They climbed up the hill, following a narrow path that wound it way past a stony outcrop thrusting out from the side of the hill. Generations of hammers and chisels left it covered with images of gods and men. In several places the stone was freshly cut, where the spiral of Saerec had once been. Cut away, but not forgotten.

  The doors were made from great planks of oak, weathered by years of rain and wind and hard as iron. Every inch was covered with some sort of carving or effigy, looking down on the new arrivals with sorrowful expressions. They were open in the summer heat, letting out the smell of sweat, meat, ale and flowers. A man appeared in opening, one of the clan leaders who had accompanied the chief.

  "Holy sir," he said. "Belandec offers his most sincere apologies for the display of ill temper earlier. As recompense, he asks that you join him at the high table for the nightly feast." He glanced at Azaran. "Your companion may accompany you, if you fear for your safety."

  "I have no such fear," came Segovac's reply. "After all, the chieftain welcomes me under his own roof. Times may have changed, but surely the clan still honors the codes of hospitality?"

  "Of course!" The man seemed offended at the question. "We are men of honor!"

  "Good. Then I look forward to a pleasant meal with the most worthy chieftain of the Colamnacs."

  The man inclined his head. "A serving maid will show you to your quarters. Our clan welcomes you and your guard."

  He went back inside. Segovac remained where he was, rubbing his chin as he thought.

  "They will betray us at this meal," said Azaran.

  "Why would you think that?" Segovac asked.

  "If I wanted to take man unawares, dinner is as good a place as any."

  "Be
landec welcomes us as guests under his roof," Segovac replied. "As chieftain, he speaks for the clan. Breaking the law of hospitality would thus dishonor the entire clan."

  "What if he doesn't care about honor? I saw a man without much in the way of a spine."

  "Well then," said Segovac, "may my death serve as an eternal rebuke to their descendants."

  Sunset. Lamps were lit. The hall filled with men and women come to share the bounty of their chieftains table. Running down the center of the building was a long chamber floored with stone and marked by by lines of wooden pillars, each hewn from the trunk of some ancient tree. To the left and right, doors led to other areas, most notably the kitchen, as well as the chambers of those whose rank was high enough to merit private quarters, instead of having to bed down by the fire every night along with the dogs. The walls were dark from generations of smoke from the fire pits, currently unlit in the summer warmth. Each pillar was carved to resemble some ancient god or hero, looking down on generations of Colamnac clansmen with stern wooden eyes.

  The chieftain's place was at the head of the hall, on a large wooden chair. Belandec did not sit on it, preferring a low stool set before, on which he squatted down with much grimacing and grumbling.

  "You do not sit in the Chieftains chair?" asked Segovac, sitting to his right in the position of honor.

  "That cursed thing ruined what was left of my back," came Belandec's reply. "Had I an ax, I would chop it up for firewood."

  "Would that not harm your back even more?"

  Belandec didn't bother to answer. The hall filled with other notables of the clan. Warriors seated on the left, advisers, traders and other men of note on the right. Women sat with their husbands, if they had one, while a few sat alone, women of great rank, judging from the respect the men about them showed. Servants brought out great platters of roast meat, slivers of bread, stews, fruits and more, all washed down with with cups of ale and cider. Bards sang in corners, strumming on harps, accompanied by flautists and drummers.

  A merry scene, or at least it should have been. Yet there was little conversation. Men ate their food in silence, women kept their eyes down. Occasionally someone would utter a few words to his neighbor, but such efforts soon died. The great amounts of strong drink swilled down did not lead to conviviality, but a sullen numbness.