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

by Arbela, Zackery

  Before the feast began, Belandec called on Segovac to give a blessing. He stood, uttering a prayer to Saerec and for a moment the oppressive atmosphere seemed to lift. But then he sat back down and it returned with a vengeance. they feasted under a curse, or so it seemed to Azaran. No one approached the Rhennari, the way the common folk outside the hall had done earlier. They could not bring themselves to meet his gaze, or one another for that matter.

  It made Azaran nervous. When food was placed before him he did not eat at first, waiting until the chieftain had partaken of the same meal before placing any in his mouth. He tasted nothing through shouldn't have been there. The meat was meat, the ale was ale. He did not fall over in convulsions.

  He realized this grim depression predated their arrival. It was a mirror of the devastation in the countryside. The farmers had their homes burned and fields trampled; the men in the hall had the same done to their souls. Of course, they still had roofs over their heads, food in their bellies, not to mention their lives...but it made for miserable company.

  Segovac finally broke the silence. "Chieftain," he asked, "I hear you return in glory from the battlefield in Cavarag."

  "Hmm." Belandec grunted by way of an answer.

  "What offense did the men of Cavarag give, that all the clans of Eburrea would unite for battle against them?"

  "None. By command of Ganascorec did we muster ourselves for battle."

  "And why would he march to battle against our Cavaragi kin? What reason did he give?"

  "None, save his own ambition," said one of the warriors down the table, who then flinched at Belandec's glare.

  "Ganascorec commands," said the chieftain. "We are sworn to obey. It is not for us to question his reason."

  "Slaves obey without question," said Segovac. "Dogs obey their masters or they are whipped. But free men of Eburrea speak their minds. That is the ancient law. Even a chieftain must hear the words of the lowest farmer with respect. Should a King be any different, is he not just a chieftain writ large?"

  "It is different," Belandec said. "Ganascorec is our King, sent by the gods - however you define them! - to lead Eburrea to its rightful destiny. He will be the Master of all Aelen's Folk, and the world will tremble at our power." There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in Belandec's voice as he said this.

  "Hmm." Segovac shook his head. "Does he make such claims?"

  "Him and the Ghelenai." Belandec glared at Segovac. "And wise men do not dispute this where they can hear."

  "So," said Segovac. "Free men no more..."

  "Enough!" Belandec snapped, cutting of what little conversation there was in the hall. "Three days I granted you under my roof! You will oblige me, Rhennari, by spending them in silence!"

  Muttering and shocked looks at Belandec's lack of courtesy filled the hall. Belandec paid them no mind, draining what was left in his cup. "More ale!" he snarled at one of the serving men.

  Another keg was brought out. Belandec slumped on his stool, his face sagging with drink and self-pity. Cups were refilled, a servant appearing by Segovac and Azaran with a pitcher.

  Azaran drank his down in a single pull, allowing himself to relax for a moment. It was a fine ale, though truth be told he had nothing to measure it against. He set the cup down and belched. Frowns from the men sitting across the table suggested this was impolite. "Sorry," he muttered, reddening with embarrassment.

  Segovac shook his head again. He raised the cup in salute and drained it down to the dregs. A moment passed as he licked his lips. "Azaran," he said, "I owe you an apology. You were right, there is no honor here..." He tried to stand, then sighed and fell to the ground.

  Azaran rose up. A wave of dizziness filled him. The world seemed to spin, he couldn't focus his eyes. Darkness crept up, ready to take him...warmth on his chest as the runes flared. He felt his blood run hot, as the poison was purged from his body. The dizziness disappeared, replaced by a sharp awareness.

  Belandac was standing, staring at Azaran in disbelief. "Impossible," he was saying. "That was enough to drop a horse."

  "You bastard." Azaran had no sword, all had come to the feast unarmed. He picked up his chair, raising it high, ready to smash it over Belandec's treacherous head.

  Then something struck him in the back of the skull. He fell to his knees, dropping the chair into the cold fire pit. He turned about, and was struck again for his troubles. He fell to the ground. The last thing he heard was a voice saying. "I told you it wouldn't work!"

  That voice. A familiar voice. I know that voice, he thought, just before the darkness took him.

  Chapter Four

  A thrust into the ground. Torches burned around him, thrust into the ground in a perfect circle. They flared and crackled, yet gave off no heat, only a lifeless light, a light that didn't so much drive the darkness away as co-exist with it. It was cold enough for the sweat dripping down his body to freeze. Cold enough to be felt in his bones. Cold enough to kill a man. Yet he stood, naked, perched on the balls of his feet, staring at the sword thrust into the ground before him, hands at the ready to take the hilt and swing.

  There were eyes watching him, beyond the torchlight. Eyes reflected the cold light with a coldness of their own. There was no pity in them, no mercy to be found here. To fail was to be without worth. The worthless would not live. Succeed or die. Be strong and live.

  He stood there, waiting for a frigid lifetime. Something creaked beyond the circle of torches, where his eyes could not follow. Whips snapped, followed by a beastly snarl. Heavy clawed paws touched down on the frozen floor. The great cat that slunk between the torches was as high as his chest, with pale striped fur and red eyes. The long fangs in its mouth ripped out the throats of creatures far larger than the man standing before it, it's claws could disembowel a horse.

  This was a test, everything was a test. Every day, every second. The great cat circled about the torches, weaving between them, keeping its gaze fixed on the man. Hunger was transparent in it's every movement, for the beast had been starved for days.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the red ones in the cat's skull, forcing himself to see the anger, the hunger, the desire to hunt and kill, to feed on his flesh, to drink his blood. The sword was close, so tantalizing close. With it, he would be be a match of any enemy, man or beast. One flick of his hand, and he would have that cat ready for skinning.

  But he remained where he was, did not reach for the blade. He maintained eye contact with the great cat, forcing it to remain still through sheer force of will. The body was nothing. The mind was everything. To control the world around him, a man must first control himself. Must first be the Master of himself. Through inner mastery would come greater mastery, of men, of beasts, of the world and everything in it.

  He was the Master of his fate. He was the Master of his world. He would bend the cat to his will, or he would be broken...no! He would not be broken, mastery was his, it was his...

  The cat bounded forward, closing in for the kill. He grabbed the sword, feet light on the ground, sweeping the blade up to meet the beast as it leaped at him. Steel cut through fur and flesh. Hot blood splashed across his shoulders. The cat yowled once before it hit the ground, dying moments after impact.

  He stood there, breathing heavily, lowering the blade. He bowed his head with shame, a failure. He looked up, saw the eyes looking back with anger, with disappointment.

  Footsteps sounded. The blade fell from his fingers. A man older than him by a healthy number of decades strode through the torches. He raised a black metal rod in one hand.

  Suddenly the boys arms stretched out on wither side, grasped by some invisible force. They raised above his head, lifting him off the ground.

  The older man looked up at him, face a mask of fury. "You horrible little bastard!" he shrieked in a high squeaky voice. "What would mother think of the mess you made?"

  "You little bastard!"

  Azaran's eyes opened. He looked about, confused at his surroundings. No torches, no bloo
d...wait, his arms were above his head and his feet were barely touching the ground. The air was dark and damp, with the musty smell of mold and unwashed bodies. Four stone walls, half buried under pale moss and lichen. Piles of debris and dirt in the corners. The only light came through the iron bars in the door.

  A dungeon. He ran his tongue about his mouth, feeling both thirsty and in dire need to relieve himself. He remembered drinking the spiked ale, but the runes blocked the poison before it could take effect. The blow to the head was another matter...he bumped his head back against the wall and winced at the soreness. Nothing seemed broken though.

  Segovac had also drunk the ale. He looked around the cell but saw no sign of his friend, the only other living creature in the place a rat that quickly scurried under the door.

  Probably not dead. He weighed the odds and considered it likely that Segovac was among the breathing. Azaran was alive and to the locals he was nobody, just a bodyguard. They would have killed him without hesitation, if murder was their intention. But he was alive, which meant Segovac was likely the same.

  First things first...he had to get himself free. Azaran pulled himself up, ignoring the iron cuffs digging into his wrists. He got a closer look at the chains...rust on the links and on the hook in the wall from which he hung. Other men might find it an insurmountable obstacle. Not Azaran.

  He twisted around so that he faced the wall, placing his feet against it. He took a deep breath and pushed out, straining against the chains. Warmth on his chest and torso said the runes were adding their strength to his body. Blood trickled down his forearms as the cuffs cut into his skin, but the pain was nothing, a distant buzz on the horizon. Metal squealed from the stress. Then he heard the snap, and fell to the ground, landing on his back, arms flying out and the broken chain falling to the floor.

  The breath was knocked from his body. He lay there for a moment, until the blood stopped pounding in his head and the ache vanished from his arms. He sat up, taking stock of the cuts on the back of his hands. Likely would leave scar, one to more to add to the collection.

  The door was unlocked. He opened it slowly, hearing voices down the hallway.

  "You little bastard, I say it again. Look at the mess you made!"

  "What, it's just a spill. It'll clean up nicely..."

  "Cleaning it ain't the point! Do you know how many teeth I had to pull, how many fingers had to be twisted, just to get this? Men don't give up this sort of treasure easily...oh gods, the screams and moans they made! And you slopped half of it across the ground!"

  "Look, I said I'm sorry. I'll say it again, if it helps..."

  "Oh you'll do more than than, my lad, oh yes! Pay me back you will..."

  Azaran peeked down the hall. Two men stood there. One waved a flask of wine in the others face. A large puddle of the stuff spread out by their feet.

  "Half a measure of silver, this cost! Had to trade three of my wife's chickens, she gave me the sharp end of her tongue for a week!"

  "I feel your pain, brother, but the sky will fall before I give you a copper piece..."

  "And what will Mother say when I tell her?"

  "You wouldn't!"

  "Try me!"

  "You're the bastard here, not I!"

  Azaran feared they would stand there bickering until the stronghold crumbled to dust about their ears. Instead the fellow with the wine stumped up the steps, his brother coming after, both still sniping at one another until their voices faded away. He stepped in the hallway, broken chains handing from both wrists. He moved silently down the hall, ears open for any sign of his friend. Voices drifted down from above...laughter, shouts, a sudden clatter of dropped pots. Cells lined the narrow hallway, all empty far as he could tell. He reached the end and saw another passageway turning to the right. He stopped, as voices came down it. Belandec's...and Segovac's.

  "I had no choice," said the chieftain.

  "I hate it when people say that," came Segovac's reply, lightly tinged with scorn. "Men say that to absolve themselves of guilt. But it's always false. You always have a choice. You just feared the consequences of choosing different."

  "Should I have given my life to save the life of one Rhennari? What of my own sons and grandsons, they would have gone under the black knives as well!" Belandec's was thick with anger. "Damn you, Segovac, for coming here! It's easy to talk of choices when you're not the man who bleeds should the wrong one be made! Damn you for putting in me in that place, where I had to make that decision! The world is as it is, and in this world Ganascorec is King, the Ghelenai kill as they wish and my clan does its best to survive! And if a self-righteous son of a bitch like you must die, so be it! A small price to save all our lives!"

  "And so you make another choice," said Segovac, unfazed by the tirade. "A long life of shame, over a short one with honor."

  "And would you share in that death? Or would you walk away, and leave us all to rot? Ghelenai, Rhennari...the gods piss on you both!" A pause, likely so that the old chieftain could catch his breath. "Truth be told," he then said in a calmer voice, "if had just been you who came through here, I would have given you the three days, then sent you on with food for the road and a fond farewell. Plenty of folk in this walls still hold your kind in respect and for their sake I would honor the old ways. The Ghelenai are all with the King, in Cavarag. But you came here with that fellow Azaran and that changes everything."

  "What does he have to do with this?"

  Azaran almost stopped breathing at that. He listened closely, straining to catch every word.

  "Word came a day before you arrived. Ganascorec is looking for a man named Azaran. The messenger described him as a man not of our blood, big and strong, with a chest covered in brands. Then you show up at my door, with a bodyguard who looks just like that, who goes by the same name."

  "Why would Ganascorec want with him? They've never met, as far as I know."

  "I have no idea, but the messenger was clear in this. If Azaran comes through our lands, he is to be taken alive. The man who delivers him to Ganascorec will be rewarded with riches and royal favor. If he escapes, he will die, along with every third man in his clan. I will not pay that price, not for you and not for some outlander. What crime did he commit, for the King to take such measures?"

  "I have no idea...and neither does Azaran, I reckon."

  "Is that a joke? I'm not laughing."

  "The truth of the matter is...strange. Where is he now?"

  "Hanging in a cell not far from here..."

  "No, he isn't." Segovac said it with a certainty that Azaran found flattering.

  "He's chained to a wall..."

  "How many chains?"

  "What bloody difference does that make?"

  "Every third man in your clan would be my guess. He's already gone."

  Azaran sensed the attack a heartbeat before it came. He stepped away from the wall, just before a heavy club cracked against the stones. He turned about, facing a pair of warriors, both armed with truncheons. As one they rushed in, swinging at his head. Azaran moved in quickly, stepping inside the swing of one man, knocking aside into the other, sending them both to the ground. He caught one club as it was falling and swung it twice, knocking both men into unconsciousness.

  He looked up, just as another warrior stepped into the hallway, holding a bow with an arrow nocked to the string. Twenty feet away, hard to miss. Azaran tensed, ready to rush. Knock the arrow aside and close the gap before he can pull another...risky, but there was a chance...

  The archer drew back. Azaran stepped forward, keeping the club before it. Then another man appeared behind the archer and struck him with terrific force. The arrow went wide, burying itself in the ceiling. The archer fell to the ground and did not move.

  The new fellow looked down at the archer. Then he looked at Azaran. And Azaran's world shook on its axis.

  He knew that face.

  "I told them to keep a guard on you," said the man. "One chain was not enough. You would escape. But
they never listen. No discipline."

  The man did not speak Eburrean, Teregi, or any other language Azaran had heard since the day he was pulled from the sea. It was different tongue...harsh, guttural and as familiar to him as a mother's voice to a child.

  And that voice. He knew that voice. He heard it, speaking from beyond the black depths, where his memories lay hidden. The voice that gave instruction.

  The voice from the past.

  He knew that voice. And he knew the name that went with it, appearing in his head like a thunderclap in a clear sky.

  "Tarazal," Azaran said, taking a step back.

  "So," said Tarazal, walking forward. "You do remember. I knew that talk about your memories was nonsense. You know me."

  "Yes..." Azaran raised the club unsteadily. "But...who are you?"

  "The man who will kill you, traitor!" Tarazal kept on coming, stepping over the archers body, cracking his knuckles.

  Azaran shook his head. "No...you won't kill me. Who are you? Who am I?"

  "Enough talk." Tarazal stopped, holding out his arms. "I have no weapon, Azaran. You get one swing at me. Then I take that club and feed to you, one splinter at a time. Strike!"

  Azaran raised the club, the lowered it. "No. You answer my questions..."

  Tarazal spat on the ground, lowering his arms. "Not just a traitor," he said with contempt. "A coward as well."

  Rage flared in Azaran. No man called him a coward! Honor is all, said the voice of the man standing before him, speaking from the past even as he stood in the present. Azaran moved, swing from below, aiming at the man's ribs. Knock him back, stun him for a precious second or two, enough for a second strike at his skull...

  What happened next was hard to understand. He attacked. The club swung at Tarazal's head and struck only air. Then he was spun about and sent flying, bouncing off the wall and hitting the ground. He saw stars for a moment. The club was gone from his hand. At no point did Tarazal strike him.