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

by Arbela, Zackery

  "You don't sound certain."

  "The only certainty in life is that it ends."

  Azaran frowned. It was a grim comment, coming from Segovac. He saw the pained look on his friends face. "You all right?"

  "My bone feel like they're being rattled about. It's been six years since I sat on a horse. And I hated the bloody beasts back then as well." A sudden jolt brought a wince to his face. "Damn things haven't improved."

  The continued for a few more hours in silence, looking over their shoulders for any signs of pursuit. The Stronghold had long since passed into the distance, but it wasn't far enough as far as Azaran was concerned. They'd kept off the roads, cutting across the countryside, past one ruined farmstead after another. No signs of human habitation, though there were more crows about than normal. The broken ground slowed them down somewhat and Azaran was keenly aware that they were leaving a trail behind that a blind man could follow.

  Fortunately the green line in the distance came closer with each step of the horses hooves. Before long it was a green smudge. Then they could make out the trunks and leaves, tiny but growing larger with each step. Tall trees, wide trees, ancient trees, stretching northward and southward into the distance.

  "The last remnant of the old forests," said Segovac. "Long along, all the west was covered like this, Trees from the edge of the sea as far to the east as one might care to wander. Axes cleared that away as time went by. But this remains...along with a few other patches."

  "Why do they still stand?" Azaran asked.

  By way of an answer, Segovac pointed at a stone half-buried in the ground nearby, had hidden under a layer of lichen. Cut into its face was an oval face with wide eyes and open mouth, Below it a line of script that looked to be a newer addition, being somewhat less worn by wind and weather. "It says, 'remember the Law of the Trees,'" Segovac said. "As soon as we cross the tree line, we are in the lands of the Iturai. We will be safe there...assuming they don't kill us."

  "It's always sun and shadow with you," Azaran commented. "They will help us...if they don't kill us."

  "Way of the world, friend Azaran."

  "A little certainty is all that I ask for."

  "As I said, the only certain thing about life..."

  "Is that it ends, I heard you. But at least that is something a man can plan his day around."

  "If you want certainty, stay here and wait. Before long Belandec will arrive and you can be certain what follows unpleasant for you...though likely for them as well." And with that Segovac rode towards the trees.

  "What's to stop them from crossing into the forest?" Azaran asked, following after.

  "The Iturai," came the reply. "They know their own land better than we do. Any army that goes in uninvited will lose half its men by sunset."

  Azaran looked back towards the east. The stronghold was long gone, but he could sense Tarazal on the other side of the horizon. "That won't stop him," he muttered.

  The face may have been that of an Hadaraji, but the glare contorting his features belonged to Nerazag alone. "Say that again," he said slowly, emphasizing each word. "Just so I understand with a minimum of confusion."

  Tarazal stared straight ahead, his expression that of a stone. "Azaran escaped."

  "Which begs the question, why was he alive in the first place?" No answer came. Nerazag stepped towards Tarazal, looking up into the warrior's face. "Have you lost your tongue? Or maybe my memory is failing...though you are older than I by decades. Did I not hear you proclaim that no one would kill Azaran but you? That you would hold the knife that took his life? Well?"

  "That is correct."

  "So...you had him tied up with chains even a man of the Green Banner could not break. There was nothing stopping you from removing the head from his shoulders. Or sinking a knife his heart. Or disemboweling the bastard and strangling him with his own intestines. Or any other injury to his physical body beyond the ability of the runes to heal. Yet not only did you allow him to live, he managed to escape, thus nullifying your coming to this dung heap in the first place. So tell me, Tarazal. Am I forgetting anything?"

  "Your memory is excellent, as are your powers of observation."

  Nerazag backhanded him across the face. The blow didn't affect Tarazal in the least, didn't even leave a mark, but the shudder than ran through his body meant it had the effect of a flogging.

  "Who am I?" Nerazag asked coldly.

  "Nerazag. First Servant of our Master."

  "And what does it mean when I speak with the Master's authority?"

  "That you speak with his voice."

  "So tell me true, why did you not kill him."

  Tarazal forced the words out. "He did not deserve an honorable death. He was a coward, a traitor. I was going to take him to the Master."

  Nerazag grimaced. "As if our Master has the time or interest in a broken tool!"

  "Azaran is...was, one of our best. An exemplar of a true Osa'shaq, he would not have been raised to the Green Banner otherwise. The Master would want to know where and how he went wrong..."

  "Do not presume to know what the Master thinks! His mind is deep and subtle, his motives beyond that of ordinary men. We can only obey and marvel at his wisdom." Nerazag turned away. "You have disgraced yourself, Tarazal. You will redeem yourself by bringing Azaran's head to lay at the feet of the Master. Or you answer with your own life."

  "It will be done."

  "Good. Now...what about this?" Nerazag pointed towards the doors of the great hall. Blood streaked the ancient wood and dripped down on the flagstones. Mounted on spikes above the great lintel were a line of heads, freshly cut, many still bearing their final expressions before the sword came down on their necks. Nine heads in all, every one belonging to a man of senior rank.

  "There was an attempted coup against the chieftain of this clan," Tarazal explained. "Apparently, they did not take well to the noble Belandec's violation of their rules of hospitality. The malcontents freed Azaran and his companion, arranged for them to escape..."

  "That does not absolve you of your mistakes, Tarazal."

  "As you day. The conspirators marched on the Great Hall. They wanted to take the chieftain while he slept and replace him with someone who wouldn't be as friendly to King Ganascorec. Fortunately I was awake and intervened."

  "How many did you kill?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Only seventeen?"

  "Two of them surrendered." Tarazal shrugged. "I would have killed them as well, but Belandec intervened. Apparently they were kin his."

  "Couldn't be helped, I suppose. These savages are lacking in discipline." Nerazag nodded. "This goes some way towards making up for your mistake."

  "My gratitude, honored Nerazag."

  "Why only nine heads?"

  "We only had nine hooks. The rest were burned. The Colamnacs and their vassal clans are falling over themselves to reaffirm their allegiance to their chieftain."

  "And did the worthy Belandec fall over himself to express his gratitude?"

  "Not exactly."

  They went into the great hall, stepping around the pool of blood accumulating on the ground. Men and women filled the main chamber, high and low, noble and common, warrior and peasant alike, all kneeling before their chieftain and giving the ancient oath:

  "I swear by the gods, by sun and moon, by earth and sky, I am your man from the top of my head to the bottom of my foot. I will to my lord be true, I will love what he loves, I will obey his lawful commands, I will die before I break this oath. My gods and men witness this act!"

  After which the chieftain would place a hand atop the head of the one making the solemn pledge and utter, "Before gods and men, by the light of the Mansion, I accept your allegiance. Rise, son of the Colamnacs!"

  Yet even as the men in the front were kneeling to make their oath, a loud murmuring filling the hall in the back. A path opened to allow Nerazag and Tarazal through, the latter receiving fearful looks, many averting their eyes before he could stare ba
ck. Seventeen, came the whispers. He killed seventeen men and not a scratch on him. Not a man, but a demon!

  Belandec placed his hand on the head of a skinny young man with the look of a farmer. He looked up and paled visibly as he saw Tarazal approach. The farmer quickly cleared away even before his chieftain finished speaking.

  "You!" he said, glancing at Tarzal. He stood, wincing at the stiffness in his knees. "I...well...I welcome, I thank..."

  Tarazal cut him off. "This is Nerazag," he said, gestured to his compatriot. "He comes on the King's business."

  Belandec looked at Nerazag. "You serve Ganascorec?"

  "I have that honor," Nerazag replied.

  "But, you are not Eburrean!"

  "The King does not hold that against me." Nerazag held out a small silver medallion, with the sigil of the Aranac clan on one side and a scepter engraved on the other. Only those who served the King carried such tokens. Any who held one spoke with the Kings voice - his commands were no different than if the King himself said the words.

  Belandec stared at the medallion as if he held a viper. He rose up, wincing at the popping sounds coming from his knees. "Be welcome under my roof," he said stiffly, "The Colamnacs honor their oaths of loyalty."

  "Then you can begin by bringing me the head of the one called Azaran." Nerazag did not waste any time. "He was in your dungeon...and then he was not. My companion here says those responsible are now among their dead, their heads mounted above your door. Yet he is still gone, and from what I can tell you have not made the effort to recover him. Why?"

  "The clan is in a uproar," Belandec answered. "An attempt was made to overthrow me. Some of my own blood were included among the conspirators. Before I can send anyone to look for anything, I must make sure of the loyalty of my clansmen, else there will be chaos."

  "Meanwhile, Azaran goes ever further from your reach." The smile disappeared from Nerazag's face. "You sit here while peasants and oafs mumble meaningless words. Who knows what mischief he is now planning? He is a sworn enemy to the King. He must be destroyed. And you must obey."

  "I must look after my clan!" Belandec all but shouted back. "I am their chieftain. The clan comes first, Ganascorec himself would not demand otherwise..."

  Nerazag stepped in and backhanded Belandec, knocking him to the ground. The hall erupted with outrage. Warriors closed in, hands at their swords or knives. Tarazal turned about, looking at them calmly, his own hand resting on the hilt of his blade. The warriors halted in midstep, remembering the seventeen men this killer had sent to the afterlife without so much as a scratch in return. They stepped back, some raising their hands in a sign of peace. Clan honor was important...but no one was willing to bleed for Belandec.

  "You hit me!" Belandec cried, staggering back to his feet.

  "A excellent observation. That must be why you are Chieftain."

  "The King will hear of this! He will have your head..." Belandec got to his feet.

  Nerazag struck him again. Belandec fall back on his backside. "You call tell him yourself," Nerazag said. "He's on his way."

  "Ganascorec is coming here?" The outrage quickly vanished from Belandec's voice.

  "Yes." Nerazag looked down on the old chieftain. "He will be here in a day. I have come ahead to warn you. And he does not come alone. The Ghelenai ride with him."

  "I...Belandec managed to stand, cringing like a cur beneath Nerazag's glare. "I will send my warriors in pursuit. We will find him, I will lay his head at the King's feet with my own hands..."

  "And that may be enough to win back his goodwill," said Nerazag. "Maybe. If not...well, as you say, the chieftain lives for his clan. So it is the clan that suffers when the chieftain fails. At least that's how the Ghelenai will see it."

  The words carried to the back of the hall, bringing forth a current of fear. And for a moment Nerazag smiled.

  Once again, Azaran and Segovac traveled through a forest.

  Tall trees, ancient and hoary, rose about them, the branches reach over the narrow trail on which they rode. Birds flashed overhead and they heard the occasional snatch of song. Leaves rustled as a squirrel bounded past. Ancient oaks and elms, their roots deep in their earth, their trunks wide and inscrutable. This forest was old when the first men entered these lands, remembering a time when the trees extended eastward beyond the horizon, when the only sky seen was that which they allowed to pass through their leaves.

  The place was quiet with its secrets. The air was still and heavy. Azaran found himself glancing at the shadows as they rode, at the dark spaces beneath the roots, where movement of creatures could be seen. Looking back at the trail behind him, certain that someone or something was trailing behind.

  "Azaran," Segovac finally said, noting his companion's jumpiness. "It's just another forest. Trees and leaves. One is much the same as another."

  "No." Azaran shook his head. "This one is different. I...we are being watched."

  "Indeed we are. By the squirrels. By the birds and foxes and rabbits. And likely by the Iturai."

  "I do not see them." Azaran looked about again.

  "You won't see them. Not until they desire it otherwise, but rest assured they know we are here." Segovac answered. "There isn't a leaf that falls without them knowing about it. Their survival depends on it."

  "They sound...friendly."

  "They are a people apart. They have kinfolk living to the far north, and there is another group in forests to the east, through their speech is very different."

  "How are they different from the humans outside the forest? Do they have a third eye in the center of their foreheads, or something else along that lines? An extra pair of arms, perhaps?"

  "You'll see. And here we are."

  The trees abruptly ended in a small clearing that seemed to come from nowhere. Short grass clung to the ground, not rising higher than the tops of their horses hooves. As they rode in, Azaran realized that the shape of the clearing was a perfect circle, the surrounding trees forming the edge with an unnatural precision.

  In the center of the clearing was a flat stone, also shaped like a perfect circle. Cut into the top were seven more circles, one inside another, the center point filled with a round face with an open mouth and wide eyes, which seemed to radiate a sense of serenity.

  Segovac dismounted and went before the stone. "Hand me your dagger," he asked Azaran.

  Azaran dismounted and handed him the blade. Segovac pressed the tip against the ball of his thumb, hissing as a drop of blood leaked out. He held his hand over the stone, letting the drop fall onto the face.

  "Stand back," he said, giving the weapon back. "Cover your eyes. This might get a bit bright."

  "What do you mean...whoa!"

  Azaran shielded his eyes. The stone face lit up with a bright green light, followed by the rings, once after another. Peeking through his fingers, he saw tendrils of green energy snaking their way out, twisting together like vines, until the formed the shape of a face. A face of glowing vines and ghostly leaves. The eyes opened and they were pure green, deep and endless, filled with wisdom beyond the ken of mortal minds.

  Who comes before me? The voice did not speak, but instead addressed their minds directly.

  Segovac bowed before the face. “I am Segovac Rhennari, a servant of Saerec. My companion is Azaran, a warrior in search of his past.”

  A dangerous thing to look for. The face stared at Azaran, who had the uncomfortable sensation that it looked beyond his face and body, into places he wasn't sure were better off left hidden. I see...violence. I see honorable service to a great lie. You have questions. Beware, the answers may not be what you expect.

  "It doesn't mean a man should not ask," Azaran replied.

  The face turned back to Segovac. Why do you come here?

  "We seek shelter among your own," Segovac answered. "I call upon the ancient pact between the Rhennari and the Green Ancestor. Grant us refuge among the trees and tribe. Turn away our enemies. Honor the pact."

  T
he face closed its eyes. The Pact will be honored. Be welcome among the seeds and saplings.

  And with a flash the face disappeared.

  Azaran stared at the space where it had been, then at the stone. Then he turned to Segovac. "What," he asked, "was that?"

  "The Green Ancestor." Segovac sucked on his thumb, nodding as the blood flow stopped. "It's complicated..."

  "Make it simple then!"

  "Not sure if I can..." Segovac rubbed the back of his head. "The Iturai honor the memory of their ancestors. When they die, they believe their souls join with the Source..."

  "The Source?"

  "Their god, or something like it. But it's the simplest explanation for now...anyway, their souls join with the Source. The Source sends a part of them back, to provide guidance to their ancestors. What we just saw was the earthly manifestation of that power, the souls of past generations of Iturai, speaking in one voice."

  Azaran shook his head. "That's absurd. It must be some trick!"

  "Perhaps. If so, it's a really good one. But I would keep that opinion private...starting now."

  Before Azaran could ask why, his ears caught the sound of the trees rustling. Leaves being parted, feet stepping softly on broken twigs, making no attempt to hide themselves. Men appeared out of the trees, standing half-hidden in the shadow. They wore kilts decorated with spinning patterns and by and large went barechested, their skin decorated with black swirling tattoos. Men like any other...but different. Their complexion was copper-colored, their hair a deep black with a slightly bluish hue. Their eyes were slightly tilted and the tips of their ears pointed, poking up through their hair. They looked on the new arrivals with a wariness made all the more dangerous by the longbows many carried.

  "The Iturai," said Segovac. "Let me do the talking."

  At some unheard signal, the men emerged from the trees. Azaran stared at them, for reasons beyond their unquestioned strangeness. He'd seen their kind before...red-skinned, pointed ears, in fields and forests and hills far away from here. Heard them called different names, speaking different tongues. There was a word used for their type, a name that applied to all men and women with their features. The name their race...type...whatever classification...