Redemption: A Malvers War Story

by Tora Moon

  While he waited for the metalsmith to finish her work, Histrun often found himself at the crèche. At first, he tried to talk to Rizelya, but he didn’t know what to say. Remembering how happy it had made Zehala when he showed the child affection, he tried to hug her, but it made him uncomfortable. He resorted to leaning against the building across from the crèche, watching Rizelya.

  A few days after the funeral, Aistrun, a young boy from a herding family, arrived at the crèche to begin his training. His red-gold hair with gold streaks made it obvious he would be a fighter. For some reason, Rizelya befriended the boy. They looked odd running side-by-side in the play yard; even at their young age he towered over her. Histrun couldn’t help smiling when he overheard Aistrun call Rizelya “Little Red,” to which she’d call him “Wolf.”

  At the end of the chedan, Histrun anxiously opened the door to Maehalya’s workshop. The metalsmith stood behind a table spread with a black cloth. Histrun’s mate-torque laid in the center, the ruby glinting under the soft lights and the gold gleaming from recently polishing.

  Maehalya placed her hands on either side of the torque. “Rather than making a locket,” she said, “and risk it coming open and losing Zehala’s ashes, I sealed the ashes behind the ruby. They will never fall out, and as long as you have this, her ashes will be close to you.”

  Histrun gently lifted the torque, his hands shaking slightly, and examined it. He could tell the ruby had been reset. He placed it around his neck. The metal quickly warmed. “Thank you. I will never take it off.”

  “I hope you can find peace and happiness again, Histrun,” Maehalya said quietly.

  He nodded and turned toward the door. How could he ever be happy again? His love, his life, was gone. He knew he shouldn’t, but he prayed the Mother would take him too, and soon. He didn’t want to live with the emptiness in his heart and soul.

  Drinking was the only thing that allowed him forget the ache of his loss. He wandered to the storehouse and raided the liquor cabinet, taking several bottles of whiskey, and for good measure, a jug of hard cider. He hid all but one bottle in his room, then took the remaining bottle and went outside to watch Rizelya. But seeing her didn’t stop the pain like it once had. Instead, he found himself growling in rage at the sight of her. Her auburn curls and sunny disposition reminded him too much of Zehala. He wished Zehala were alive and with him, not the little miniature version. He pushed off from the building and stomped into the wooded area, where he drank until he passed out.

  He took to wandering in the wooded area within the keep grounds during the day, always with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. Most nights, he’d fall into a drunken stupor under a tree, and not wake up until well past mid-day. On the rare occasions when the drunken daze lifted, he became aware of the pitying looks that followed him as he staggered through the keep.

  One day, he stumbled into the storehouse and blinked in foggy surprise to see a lock on the liquor cabinet. A few moments later, Kolstrun strode into the room.

  “You won’t get any more liquor, Histrun,” Kolstrun said, harshly.

  Histrun swayed, trying to focus on the alpha. “I’ll just get it from my room.”

  “There isn’t any there. I had it all removed.”

  “Can’t do that.” Histrun wiped the spittle from his chin.

  “I’m the keep alpha,” Kolstrun said, leaning against the cabinet, and crossing his arms over his chest, “and I can do what I need to do to protect my people. And in this case, it means keeping you from drinking anymore.”

  “My life. I can do what I want.”

  Kolstrun frowned and looked Histrun up and down. “Look at you man, your hair is mussed and tangled. It even has a few leaves and twigs in it. Your beard is straggly and untrimmed. Your clothes are rumpled from spending days in them, and are covered in dirt. I’ve seen you spend more time sleeping outdoors than in a bed. You won’t be able to do that much longer. Summer is almost gone; the nights will soon be getting cold as autumn arrives.” He wrinkled his nose. “And when did you bathe last?”

  “Don’t know,” Histrun slurred. “Don’t care. Why do you care?”

  “This isn’t healthy. I’m worried about you. Crone’s fires, the entire keep is worried about you!”

  “But why?”

  “You’ve been an esteemed leader of this keep and of Strunlair Clan for all of my life.” Kolstrun’s voice softened and he uncrossed his arms. “I’ve looked up to you and tried to follow your example and leadership. I can’t stand to see you like this. The young ones are beginning to think of you as ‘that worthless, drunk old man.’ They’re forgetting how much you’ve done for this clan, for our people. You need to snap out of it. We still need you. We still need your skills, your knowledge, and your wisdom.”

  Kolstrun pushed away from the cabinet. “We’ve let you mourn, but it’s been six chedans since you returned to the keep. And you’ve spent all that time in a drunken stupor. You aren’t healing. You aren’t even mourning. You’re hiding from your feelings and the world. But Histrun, the world still needs you. This keep still needs you.”

  “There’s nothing left for me.” Histrun eyed the cabinet, and then Kolstrun, wondering if he could wrestle the keys to the lock from him.

  “Maybe not here,” Kolstrun agreed. A few moments later Naila slipped into the room.

  “We have a favor to ask you,” Naila said, her voice still rough from her injury. She cleared her throat, then switched to mind-speech. *But you’ll have to get sober and stay sober to do it.*

  Histrun debated about outright refusing. The alcohol kept him comfortably numb. But she was Zehala’s daughter. He’d at least hear what she wanted from him.

  Taking his silence as assent, Naila continued, *My daughter, Wisah, is now five and needs to go to the Sanctuary for her priestess training. I don’t think I need to tell you how powerful she is. She can’t remain here without training much longer. I’d like you to take her for me. I trust you’ll get her safely to the Sanctuary.*

  “And,” Kolstrun added, “you can stay there for a while. You won’t be constantly reminded of Zehala there, and perhaps then you can start to heal. I meant it, Histrun. We really do still need you. But not like this.” He waved a hand at Histrun, encompassing his slovenly appearance. “We need you at your best.”

  “Please, Histrun,” Naila implored.

  He turned his head away as he considered their words. There weren’t any monsters near the Sanctuary, because it was too high in the mountains. He wouldn’t have to be terrified of having to go into battle again and failing, of letting someone else die because he was too old and too slow to save them. Perhaps at the Sanctuary he could find the peace he couldn’t find anywhere else, not even at the bottom of a bottle.

  “I’ll …” He cleared his throat, making a face at the sourness in his mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ll take Wisah to the Sanctuary. When do you want us to leave?”

  “Within a few days,” Naila said.

  “We need to gather a pack to go with you,” Kolstrun added. “It will give you a bit of time to start drying out.”

  Histrun nodded. He glanced at the liquor cabinet again, licking his lips, then resolutely turned away from it and walked out of the storeroom. As he strode to his room, he tried to ignore his shaking hands and the snakes crawling in his belly. He was a warrior, he could defeat this new enemy—the need for alcohol.

  Chapter 13

  Histrun gathered a fresh set of clothes, and descended the stairs to the bathing room. When he passed the mirror, he stopped short, gaping at his disheveled appearance. Kolstrun’s description of him had been kind. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, red blotches mottled his face, and a bruise darkened his check above his scraggly beard. He leaned closer to the mirror, fingering the bruise, trying to remember how he’d received it. He shook his head. The last few chedans were nothing but a blur in his mind. Numerous leaves and twigs were entwined in his snarled hair, as well as a clump of something unidentifiable. With much
gritting of his teeth and tugging—and loss of hair—he finally pulled them all out. He left the gunk alone, not wanting to touch it, afraid it was something awful like horse manure. Peeling off his filthy clothing revealed more bruises and scrapes.

  It took several buckets of water and vigorous scrubbing to get all the dirt, and that mysterious crud, from his body and hair. By the time he finished, his hands were shaking, his stomach clenched with queasiness, and a headache throbbed behind his eyes. He climbed into the big redwood tub and slid into the steaming water. He found a bench at the right level to submerge his entire body, leaned his head back on the tub’s edge, and closed his eyes, letting the warmth sink into his muscles and relax his mind. His mind floated in a place of emptiness. For the first time since Zehala had died, no guilt assailed him, no fear attacked him, and no memories plagued him.

  The sound of a scrub brush splashing into a wash bucket startled him awake. He surged out of the water, his eyes searching for the danger, his fists at the ready in front of him. His breath came in short gasps, a sudden pain clutched his chest, and his throat closed, causing him to choke. The hand he raised to his throat was covered in fur, and the tip of a claw bit into the top of his shoulder.

  A teenage boy padded into the soaking area, his wet hair streaming in front of his face. He froze when he saw Histrun. “Ah, sorry, sir,” he sputtered, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  Histrun took a deep breath and tried to release the magic he’d called unconsciously. It took several tries for his hand to return to normal.

  The young man sidled to the far edge and looked ready to bolt.

  “It’s okay, son,” Histrun said. His voice shook and his hands trembled. How could he hurt a youngster? He wasn’t anything like Mendehan. “I’m sorry. You startled me. I was asleep.” He climbed out of the tub, reaching for a nearby towel. “I’m leaving. You can stay and finish your bath.”

  “Yes … sir,” the boy stammered. He didn’t move until Histrun exited the soaking area.

  Histrun quickly dressed. He picked up his razor to trim his beard, but the tremors in his hands convinced him it could wait, rather than risk cutting his own throat. Standing with his hands braced on the sink, he gazed at himself in the mirror. Why had he reacted so violently to the young man’s entrance? Was he turning into a caitiff like Mendehan to attack children? He shook his head at the thought and wished he could blame his reaction on a nightmare, but his doze had been dreamless. “I could really use a drink right now,” he told his reflection, “to calm my nerves. But I promised Naila I wouldn’t drink. I can’t let her down.”

  Back in his room, he slumped onto the edge of his bed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, trying to stop their shaking. The dinner bell reverberated through the walls—and in his aching head. He pushed to his feet and immediately crumpled back onto the bed, holding his head with one hand to stop the dizziness, and his stomach with the other to stop the nausea. Groaning, he laid still. The thought of food and eating made his stomach roil even more. He curled up on his side in a tight ball, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth.

  Quite some time later, a soft knock sounded on his door.

  “What?” he croaked.

  A woman with walnut-brown hair and sage-green eyes stepped into his room. She held a steaming mug in one hand, and several packets in the other.

  Histrun warily eyed the mug, unsure his stomach could handle a nasty-tasting concoction, which seemed like the only thing the healers knew how to make.

  “I heard you were trying to dry out from all that alcohol in your system,” Andreyan said, gliding to the bedside. “You don’t look so good. I imagine you don’t feel so well either. Quitting drinking takes a toll on the body. Come on and sit up for me. I have a brew here that will help your shakiness, nausea, and headache.” She held out the mug.

  Histrun levered himself to a sitting position, and gingerly took the mug from the healer. Surprisingly, the smell wafting off it had a pleasant, minty, floral scent. He took a sip, then another. It didn’t taste so bad either, except for a bit of bitterness under the sweetness. “What is this?”

  “A blend of chamomile, hops, lemon balm, peppermint, lavender, ginger, and valerian root.”

  The last herb explained the bitterness and the hint of dirty socks smell. He took another sip, letting the warmth slide down his throat.

  Andreyan watched him. When he started to put the mug down, she stopped him. “Go on, drink it all. Alcohol withdrawal isn’t something we can heal with our magic. The Goddess doesn’t reward stupidity with an easy fix. The only way to treat it is with herbs and time. Over the next few days, you’ll probably feel worse before you feel better. This is more of the herbal mixture you’re drinking.” She held up a blue packet, the largest of the three. Then she held up a red one. “This is for the headaches. You’ll want to drink it fast. And this one is for the chills, sweating, and fever that will come.” She held up the yellow one. She placed them on the table next to his bed. “The best thing you can do is drink plenty of water and the brew from the blue packet. Go to the baths and soak, and believe it or not, exercise. You need to get your blood pumping the alcohol from your system. You should feel like eating again in the morning.”

  Finished with the brew, Histrun set the mug on the table. “Thank you, Andreyan.” Already the nausea and headache had eased, and his hands weren’t shaking as much.

  “It’s no trouble,” Andreyan waved away the sentiment. “Lay back down and try to get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in the morning.” She pulled the bedding up and covered him, patting his shoulder before she left his bedside. At the door, she paused. “Oh, Histrun? No matter how bad you feel, don’t succumb and start drinking again. I’ve put a spell on the herbal mixture so that you’ll be violently ill if you drink any alcohol.”

  Histrun’s eyes widened. He knew the healer wouldn’t bluff about something like that. Now he really had incentive to stop drinking.

  True to Andreyan’s prediction, over the next two days, Histrun continued to feel worse. But on the third day, he awoke without any tremors, headache, or nausea. His heart still felt like it had been ripped from his chest, but he could function and go through the motions of living.

  Naila joined him at breakfast. “You look better. Will you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

  Histrun nodded.

  Preparations for the journey filled his day. Eidelstrun had received a promotion to fighting-pack alpha and wouldn’t be joining them, and Lestrun had broken his leg. But many of his platoon would be accompanying him on the journey north. Maheli had been thrilled to be part of those chosen.

  His eyebrows knitted together when he saw the gaggle of children gathered in the courtyard. When he’d agreed to Naila’s favor, it had been to escort one child, Wisah. Now there were five white-haired little girls, including Wisah, three brown-haired teenagers, and two White Priestesses in their late teens. He stomped over to Koriana, who was standing off to the side.

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” He waved an impatient hand toward the children.

  “The two White Priestesses have finished their training here and are returning to the Sanctuary. The three teenagers are metalsmiths and are going to Strunland Keep to apprentice with the helstramiester. The other children are old enough to be sent to the Sanctuary to begin their priestess training. It seemed a waste of an opportunity not to send them with you.”

  “I didn’t agree to babysit,” Histrun grumbled. “With all of them along, it’s going to take much longer to reach the Sanctuary.” Now he understood why additional fighters had been added to his platoon. They’d need them if they did run into a nest missed by the regular sweeps, or crossed a nest ready to mature.

  “You’ll be fine.” Koriana laughed. “What else do you have to do?” Without waiting for his answer, she turned away, hurrying to help Maheli tie a pack onto a multa’s back.

  He glanced at Wisah, waiting at the courtyard’s pe
rimeter, out of the way. Rizelya stood next to her and looked on forlornly as she watched the proceedings. Her friend Aistrun held her hand. They were close enough to Histrun he could hear their exchange.

  “But Wisah, you can’t go,” Rizelya pleaded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’ll never come back, just like my mama.”

  Wisah, with a maturity beyond her tender, young age, pulled Rizelya into a hug. “I’ll be back, Rizelya. You’ll soon start your training to be a Red, and I’ll be starting mine as a White. Before you know it, I’ll be riding back through those gates to do my apprenticeship training at our temple. I won’t let the Supreme send me anywhere else, I promise.”

  “I’ll miss you.” Rizelya wiped her eyes, then looked at the horses. “Did you see the one they picked out for you? It isn’t a pony, it’s a big horse! I can’t wait until I can have a horse of my own. She’ll look just like my mama’s horse, Kylara. Poor horse, she misses her friend something fierce. About as much as I’m going to miss you, Wisah.”

  “Hey, Little Red,” Aistrun said, “I’ll still be here. You won’t be alone. I’ll watch out for you.”

  “I know, Wolf, but you’re not the same as Wisah.” Rizelya heaved a sigh.

  Naila approached the children. “It’s time to go.”

  The two little girls hugged again, then Naila took Wisah’s hand and led her to her waiting horse. Aistrun put an arm around Rizelya’s shoulder. Histrun thought he should go to the girl and say something to her, but he wasn’t sure what to say to a five-year-old. As he made the final checks on Telen’s saddle girth, he saw Rizelya watching him with a look of longing. He nodded to her and saluted. She threw back her shoulders and saluted him back with a grin.

  He surveyed the courtyard. The children were settled on their horses, and the fighters stood ready to go.

  “Mount up!” he ordered. The creak of leather filled the courtyard as people climbed into their saddles. “Move out!” He gave the signal and led the platoon through the gate.