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

by Arbela, Zackery

  What came out wasn't a horn call so much as a shriek, rising in loudness and pitch until it went beyond mere sound, bypassing the ears and raking sharp claws on the mind. Window shutters shook. Clay jugs shattered. Fires flickered and went out, houses shook as if in the grip of a tempest. Out in the fields mice scampered away in panic, birds rose up from the trees of the forest in panic while deer and rabbits fled as fast as their feet would take them.

  She continued to blow, her coppery face darkening from the strain. Iturai fell to their knees, hands over their ears, those of greater age or weaker constitutions toppling over into unconsciousness. Even Azaran found his knees buckling, that hell-born sound driving all thought from his mind and silencing any voices that might be speaking.

  Eralai finally ran out of breath. She lowered the horn (which Azaran later learned was called Nashal Itapun, the "Voice that Settles Disputes,") breathing heavily, sweat running her face. "I will," she said, have silence!"

  The groans and muttered curses from the crowd suggested none would quarrel with her on this.

  "Shame!" Eralai declared. "This man is our guest. We are not savages lost to honor! The Green Ancestor has spoken, so let that be an end to it!"

  "Eralai," said Nebaro's mother, weaving on her feet, "you had no right..." She fell silent, as Eralai raised the horn to her lips again. After a moment, the older woman sat down on the ground and placed her head between her knees.

  "Anyone else?" Eralai snapped, holding the horn high. "That's what I thought! Now, Azaran, what were you saying?"

  Azaran looked out on the stunned, shaken and deafened crowd. "Perhaps this isn't the time..."

  "Talk, sir! As you said, the enemy is approaching."

  "Right...well, the enemy may outnumber you, but that does not give him the advantage. This is your land, you know the forest better than anyone. If you pick the right time and place, Ganascorec's advantage in numbers will vanish. A small force, well led and motivated, can beat a larger one that is divided and unsure of itself."

  Eralai turned to the elders. "Nebaro? What say you?"

  Nebaro nodded. "He is correct, my Queen. The Eburreans do not know this forest. We can make their passage here a walk through hell, if we choose. And they will be divided among themselves - the men of the Colamnac clan have long been friends of ours and they will number among the men coming into the forest with the King..."

  "He won't use the Colamnacs." Gwindec thumped the side of his head. "Bloody ringing in ears..."

  "What do you mean?" asked Eralai.

  "By now Belandec will be dead, most likely gutted with a black knife," said Gwindec. "The elders of the Colamnacs and their vassal clans still among the living will have bent the knee to Ganascorec. But those who control him aren't fools, they know those oaths were given in fear and lose all meaning once the Ghelenai are gone. They know the local clans are reluctant to fight you and yours and may stab Ganascorec in the back once the fighting starts. They will take some of the leading men and their sons along as hostages, but leave most of the warriors behind at Aeresia. No, when Ganascorec comes, it will be with the Hawks of Bronze in the lead."

  Murmurs at the mention of that name. Even the lowest of the Iturai knew of that dread band of mercenaries, five thousand foreign killers in the hire of Ganscorec, who slaughtered without honor or restraint. If the Ghelenai were the sharp edge of his rule, the Hawks of Bronze were the blunt instrument, the crushers of skulls.

  "The Hawks won't hesitate," said Gwindec. "Every one of them is a veteran of a dozen campaigns in as many lands."

  "They are men," Azaran shot back. "They die the same as anyone else. If we bring them to a place where we hold the advantage, they will fall."

  "And how will you counter the Ghelenai?" asked Gwindec. "Witches who can summon lightening from clear sky and fog the minds of men with phantom terrors? What will we do when Ganascorec opens his mouth and speaks with a voice that cannot be resisted? I've seen it happen before and it will happen again!"

  "Unless we pull them to a place where those powers will not work," Azaran responded. He turned to Eralai and the elders. "The Green Ancestor protects your people. She has great power, enough to counter those of the Ghelenai witches, yes?"

  Eralai nodded slowly. "I suppose...it's not a question we've ever asked..."

  "She does," said Nebaro with firm certainty. "If we met the enemy in the Greeting Glade, where she is strongest, the magics of the enemy would be useless."

  "Making it an honest fight," said Azaran with a grin.

  "But how do we draw the enemy there?" asked Eralai. "If they are coming here directly from Aeresia, their path will take them south of the Glade. They won't go anywhere near it.

  Azaran looked at Gwindec. "So tell me," he asked with a grin, "how much does your uncle want you dead?"

  The day threatened to be a hot one. Bright sunlight shot through the gaps in the leaves and branches, cutting through the morning mists like glowing spears. Birds chirped in the branches. Deer took in their morning breakfast, grazing where they could, coming silently down to ponds and streams to drink, keeping wary eyes out for the shadows of wolves and bears, of hunters stalking through shadows with arrows set to string. Fawns trotted alongside their mothers, dipping down to drink and then to frolic.

  Then the deer froze where they stood. Hooves stamped on the ground, white tails flashed and as one the beasts fled back into the tree, spooked by sounds coming from the east. Shadows flitted along the banks of a narrow stream that flowed towards the sunrise. Then the first scouts appeared, lightly armed, moving along the river side, looking about for the firsts signs of trouble. Every so often they would stop and use knives to cut marks into trees growing alongside the riverbank, a trail for others to follow.

  Those others were not long in coming, heard long before they came into sight. Men marching in loose order, spear points glinting in the morning light, reflecting off polished helms and burnished shields. Eburreans, men from the eastern clans, summoned at the command of their King, proud sons of clan nobles, their usually boastful nature quieted by the closeness of the forest and the sense they were being watched. Unease ran through their ranks like a pox and they kept their eyes on the trees and their hands on their blades.

  Yet they did not lead the way. That honor belonged to another group. Three thousand strong on this venture, moving in small groups, armed with a variety of swords, axes and everything in between, all of which showed signs of heavy use over the years, held in hands that exactly how to get the best use out of them. Foreigners, drawn from a dozen lands, united only in the coin of their paymaster and their love of organized violence. The Hawks of Bronze marched through the forests of the Iturai and they looked upon the trees with anticipation. Their numbers had grown over the years, from a small guard recruited by Ganascorec early in his reign, when even the loyalty of his own clansmen was questionable, now they were the iron fist of his rule. They had no ties to this land, no feelings of loyalty to the folk who lived here, for they were men without homelands. Veterans of killing across continents, the only thing they feared was peace, for then they would have no purpose.

  Riding alongside them was Ganascorec, accompanied by Tarazal and Nerazag, the former disguised as a Hadaraji sellsword, the latter as an Eburrean warrior. Neither of them stood out from the rest of the mob and if any wondered why the king was showing such favor to the two, they did not express it openly.

  "They make so much noise," said Nerazag irritably. "The savages will know we are coming."

  "They knew were here the moment we crossed into the forest," Tarazal's answer.

  "It does not make this any less of an annoyance."

  "War is a noisy business, honored Nerazag. You've seen enough of it to know it is so."

  "My fear, worthy Tarazal," Nerazag responded, an edge in his voice, "is that Azaran will run. Making all this for nothing."

  "He will not run," Tarazal said with confidence.

  "He is lost to honor," said Nerazag. "
You made that point on more than one occasion."

  "But not to revenge. I shoved rods of hot iron into his guts. That's something a man will remember, even those like us. And he will believe that once I am dead, the pursuit will end."

  "And how many of the kuyei will he send to the slaughter?"

  "As many as needed." Tarazal's certainly grew even stronger. "They are nothing. Survival is everything. It's what I would do, were our places switched."

  "Let's hope you are right..." Nerazag looked over a groan came from the King riding beside them. A confused look was in his eyes, then man looked about, as if he was waking from a long tormented sleep. "What is this...trees? Why do I ride through trees..."

  "Damn." Nerazag touched a slender silver bracelet about his left wrist. There was a glow, mirrored by the crown about Ganascorec's brow for a brief moment. The fog returned to his mind, the eyes dulling as he sank back into the sleep. He started to sway in his saddle, shaking his head as if gripped by sudden spell of dizziness.

  "If he falls," Tarazal said, "the men will see it and draw all the wrong conclusions."

  Nerazag rode close to the king. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out something that looked like a small piece of sponge, colored a deep orange. He leaned over and pressed it against the Kings left hand, wiping a long red-orange streak along his skin. It hissed softly and the streak seemed to sink into the skin.

  The effect was immediate. Ganascorec inhaled suddenly, eyes flying wide open as energy coursed through his body, driving away the lethargy that was his constant companion these days and causing his heart to race.

  "How much did you give him?" Tarazal asked.

  "Too much." Nerazag let the sponge drop to the ground. It disintegrated as it fell, breaking apart into flakes that disappeared beneath hooves and marching feet. "Another dose like that will kill him. But we need him sharp on this day."

  Tarazal nodded, though he was obviously displeased. "We should call a halt," he said. "Let the men rest."

  "Agreed." Nerazag touched the bracelet again. "Great lord," he said, "perhaps we might halt the army for a bit?"

  Ganascorec jerked a bit, then suddenly seemed his normal, commanding self. He barked orders, runners carrying them to the front and rear of the column. Horns sounded, drums beat and the columns ground to a halt. Men found rest and shade where they could, some headed down to the stream with armload of depleted water skins, others leading horses eager to slake their thirst.

  Ganascorec was at his best, riding up and down the line, offering words of encouragement, strengthening wavering hearts and weakening loyalties. His booming, confident voice seemed to drive away all doubts, able to instill courage even in the heart of the weakest craven, to turn the bitterest foe into a friend. Which was the whole point of raising him up in the first place. Make a man into a force of unity, meant to draw people together...until the day came when unity ceased to be necessary, when chaos became the preferred outcome. And there was nothing more chaotic than the struggles that came when a charismatic leader fell.

  But not today. Today he had to be sharp. And to Nerazag's pleasure and relief, Ganscorec played his part well. Nerazag only had to touch the bracelet on his wrist twice to keep him in line. A smaller version of the necklace worn by Brannegaia...she did not accompany this expedition, though a contingent of Ghelenai did, seated on horseback and talking quietly among themselves, their dark cloaks seemingly surrounded them in shadow even on this bright day. One of the gifts granted to the witches, every cloak designed to surrounded them with an aura of dread, filling all who saw them with a quivering fear...which would be turned to murderous hatred when the time came.

  That which we raise, we can also bring down. Those whose power depends on the goodwill of another are ever at the mercy of their benefactor. Wise indeed was the Master. Yet again, Nerazag considered the breadth of the Plan and was awestruck at the subtle thoughts of the Master and his kind, whose plots and deeds spanned years, decades, even centuries. Whose superiority was so obvious to their servants, for they alone knew true Mastery, were the only ones in the Universe fully and completely in control of their fate.

  Without realizing it, a sneer crossed Nerazag's face. What fools these savages were, looking to phantoms and foolish superstitions to explain the natural order! Nerazag knew better, as did all the Servants. Gods did not exist, and if they did they would have fallen at the hands of the Masters, for the Masters were something greater than Gods. They alone were free of Fate and its dictates, free of the weaknesses of flesh and bone. They did not merely exist in the Universe, but imposed their Will on it. Bent the very laws of existence to suit their whim, made the Suns and stars dance as they desired, shaped whole worlds to suit their purposes. What their purposes might be Nerazag did not know, but he could only take pride in the knowledge that he played a part in it, however small. These savages...fighting their silly wars over nothing, dancing to music they did not have the wit to hear. Soon enough they would understand...and when they did, their voices would praise the Master, as Nerazag's did...

  "My lord!" One of the Hawks of Bronze pointed across the stream. "Over there!"

  Nerezag looked to his left, across the narrow stream. Movement in the trees, shapes flitting in the dappled shadow. Shouts ran up and down the column, men pulling away from the water, hauling the horses out of arrow shot. Shields snapped forward, pointed forward and ahead, waiting for the attack.

  The movement continued. Those with sharp eyes saw both Iturei and Eburreans moving through the trees. Drums began to beat, slowly at first, then increasing in tempo faster and faster, following by a high keening howl like a pack of wolves. Men tensed, ready for the attack that was sure to come, ready to turn the waters of this little creek red with blood, ready to overflow it with blood until there was naught else.

  The howling abruptly, the sound echoing through the trees. Silence returned. The Hawks of Bronze retained their position. The Eburreans following after held their place, through unease ran through their ranks. None had a wish to die among these cursed trees. Even the Kings charisma would take them only so far.

  Branches parted. A lone man walked forward, clad in a plain white shirt, a beaten round shield on his left arm, the oak tree symbol of the Aranac clan still painted on the front. His head was bare, the better to see his face.

  "Good morning, Uncle!" Gwindec shouted. "A fine day for a round of killing!"

  Consternation ran up and down the other side of the creek. "Prince Gwindec," men muttered to each other. "He still lives!'

  Gwindec took a step forward. "I've been asked to relay a message!" he declared. "You have entered the lands of the Iturai uninvited and under arms! Turn back now, or your bones shall remain forever in this forest, lost to honor and memory!"

  "Defy him, great lord!" Nerazag whispered, hand on the silver bracelet.

  Ganascorec ride forward, right to the edge of the creek. He began to laugh, followed a moment later by the assembled Hawks of Bronze. "Look on this, men!" he roared. "A corpse that walks! By my reckoning you are a year past the day of your death, Gwindec! Best not keep the afterlife waiting! Step across that river and I shall ease your passage!"

  "Step down from your horse, Uncle, and we'll see if it's piss or blood warming your veins!" Gwindec shouted back, hand on his sword.

  "Tempted, my lad, tempted. Now throw down that sword," Ganascorec commanded, "and tell your Iturai friends to walk on home! Or we'll kill you all and burn down this forest for your pyre!"

  "Turn around," Gwindec shot back, "and maybe you'll live to see the dawn!"

  "Who will kill me, boy? You?" Ganascorec laughed again. "With what army?"

  "He doesn't need an army. He has me." Azaran emerged from the trees. He was unarmed, save for a javelin clasped in his right arm.

  Tarazal's eyes narrowed at the sight. "He fights with the rebels."

  "Then he will die," said Nerazag.

  "No. Something is wrong..."

  "And who in hell a
re you!" Ganascorec shouted. "Where did you dig up this fool, nephew?"

  Across the stream, Gwindec glanced at Azaran. "Are you sure about this?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Makes no difference,” came the reply. "It's too late to turn back now." Azaran strode forward. "My name is Azaran," he declared. "And this is for you!" He hurled the javelin at the King.

  Ganascorec jerked aside just in time, the javelin whisking past his face and gouging a scratch along his cheek. His horse reared in terror, and for a moment it looked like the King was about to be thrown. A gasp ran through the army at the sight.

  "And now we run," Azaran said to Gwindec. "Follow us of you dare!" he shouted at the army across the stream.

  They ran into the forest. Ganascorec somehow managed to get his mount back under control. He drew his sword, red faced with fury. "After them!" he roared in a voice that carried far and wide. "Ten thousand pieces of gold for that man's head!"

  "Great lord!" Nerazag shouted, riding out after him. "Wait!"

  But his words were drowned out in the tumult that followed. With a shout the Hawks of Bronze surged across the river, greed giving their limbs renewed vigor. Followed closely behind were the Ghelenai, eager to wet their black knives in the blood of victims, human or otherwise. The Eburreans came after, following their King despite their misgivings.

  "Damn it all!" Tarazal galloped across the stream. "Stop them, this is a trap!"

  "Stop!" Nerazag shouted, reaching out through the bracelet. But it was too late - the racket caused by the army drowned out his voice and the King's own desire for battle, countered the effect of the enchantment. Cursing in multiple languages, Nerazag followed after, trying to catch up.

  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "What, running through the trees, with an army of killers on my heels...watch out there!"

  Azaran opened his mouth to answer, but was then forced to duck his head under a branch, dodging around a tree and narrowly avoiding knocking himself out. When he regained his footing, Gwindec had pulled for ahead, as had most of the Iturai with them. Azaran picked up the pace and followed after. He could hear the sound of the army chasing after them, the riders cursing as their mounts were slowed by trees and branches, the mercenaries falling out of order as they spread out through the trees. Easy pickings for archers lying in wait, a dozen shafts might be loosed before the enemy knew they were under attack.