“This is pointless!” Larn called over the howling wind.
Shelim agreed, but he knew better than to try convincing Mazel. Mazel was a Clan Chief and would not take kindly to anyone trying to overrule him—especially not a shaman.
He pulled the hide mask away from his mouth. “They’re nearly finished!” he shouted. “We could better use our time locating the next group!”
Larn waved a hand in agreement and they huddled around his mirror. Snow kept falling and obscuring the image as he called a view of two shamen huddling together around a mirror being obscured by snow. Shelim thought for a moment and grasped his magic. He warmed the air directly over the mirror to melt the snow and kept it that way. Larn nodded his thanks and tilted the glass slightly to allow the water to run away as it would.
“Which way?” Larn said through his mask.
“We know they’re all dead to the west. How about trying more to the north?”
Larn agreed with an exaggerated nod.
The image in the mirror blurred as he made it race northward. There was nothing but whiteness to see. The image slammed to a halt, but the shadow was simply a group of strays from the herd. Larn moved on. Nowhere could Shelim see signs that the Lost Ones were out there. The blizzard made it hard to see detail, but whenever the slightest doubt arose, Larn zoomed inward to make certain. They had found groups like the one here almost immediately after leaving the clan. Those people would have survived if they had kept moving for another half day, but they hadn’t. On average, they had found four groups a day, never more than five and never less than two. Twenty groups then, some with hundreds of dead, some with as many as a thousand. The scale of the disaster was staggering. Twenty thousand dead—at least twenty thousand and more on the way, Shelim saw as Larn zoomed into another huddled group.
“By the God, please tell me this isn’t happening!”
“I can’t Larn!” he yelled. “You can see it as well as I can!”
Larn was silent as he widened the view, and widened it, and widened it, and widened it…
Shelim groaned. This group was by far the worst. Larn had to pull back so far to encompass it that the Lost Ones were reduced to dark spots against the snow. If he pulled back any further to fit them into the mirror, they would have disappeared into the whiteness.
“They’re all dead!”
“We can’t be sure,” Shelim replied.
“All dead I tell you!”
“We have to check, Larn! Just think of a child in the middle of that—we have to check! Have to!”
“All right,” Larn said unhappily. “I’ll tell Mazel.” He put his mirror away and struggled through the snow toward his chief who it appeared had finally acknowledged the worst.
The Lost Ones were all dead here.
Shelim made his way to Nyx whose black coat was white on one side where the snow had been driven into her and stuck like a second skin. He removed his gloves and scraped the hardening slush off her.
“Easy girl! I’m sorry about this but what else can I…” he said but suddenly he had an idea.
He unbuckled her girth strap and dumped the saddle. Rummaging in his pack, he came up with his blankets. With his magic, he spread them over Nyx’s back and prevented the wind from blowing them away. He replaced the saddle and tightened the girth strap.
“How about that?” Nyx bobbed her head as if agreeing that it was much better this way. “I’m glad you agree!”
The warriors took note and while Shelim took care of Larn’s horse, they helped each other with theirs. Larn came back while he was tightening the girth strap and nodded his thanks.
“We ride north!” Larn yelled.
Shelim used an exaggerated nod to show he had heard and then mounted. Larn rode by his side and they used their magic to warm themselves. They couldn’t do the same for the warriors.
It was close to dusk when the blizzard finally blew itself out. Mazel called a halt to make camp and everyone gratefully climbed down. Shelim was pleased to see Nyx and the other horses were coping well. They were used to winters on the plain, but the blizzard had been extreme. Still, everything was fine. He used his magic to dry his blankets once removed from Nyx, but the warriors were too proud to ask. He wandered over and did the chore without comment. The warriors watched wide-eyed as steam rose from one blanket after another until they were all dry.
“Was that wise?” Larn asked after he returned.
“Probably not, but what point in hiding our power after they witnessed so many challenges among us these last few seasons?”
“I suppose,” Larn said shrugging uncomfortably.
Larn was one of those who had challenged and killed another shaman this season and still felt as if he had killed a brother. Shelim knew how that felt, and he hadn’t even liked Duren.
“The tribes should be assembled now, don’t you think?” he said putting grim thoughts aside and heating water for tea with his magic.
With no evidence of fire to be seen, the warriors tried to take no notice of the bubbling water. They resolutely thrust the impossibility away from conscious thought and instead lit a fire with kindling brought with them for that purpose. Shamen always seemed strange to them, but only now were they beginning to see just how strange they were. Healing was something warriors took for granted, not even connecting the phenomenon to magic—it was just how things were. Water heating without fire, blankets drying without the sun; these things were truly magic to them and completely unexplainable. They glanced at the shamen and then at their friends in puzzlement, but finally they shrugged.
They were shamen; what do you expect?
“I still don’t know how you persuaded Mazel to call the tribes together.”
“I said either he called them in or I would,” Shelim said.
Larn coughed and spat his tea out before he choked on it. “Please tell me you’re jesting!”
He laughed. “I’m not jesting, Larn. Oh, I would have tried to call them in, but they wouldn’t have heeded me. Mazel couldn’t take the chance though. He sent messengers out that same day, but have you noticed how he’s been avoiding me?”
Larn nodded and ate some of his stew. “I had noticed, but warriors always avoid us when they can. How did you know calling the tribes in was necessary?”
“It was necessary as soon as we heard about Navarien’s massacre of the Panawyr, but he still wouldn’t call them in as he should. When we started to hear of dead Lost Ones by the hundreds, I talked to him and said that with the tribes called in, Horse Clan would be better able to defend itself. He saw the sense, but didn’t want to call them. That’s when I threatened to call them in his stead.”
“Phew! You take a lot on your shoulders, Shelim. We are shamen not chiefs.”
“Better a shaman lead than a stupid chief.”
“Mazel isn’t stupid! He’s just—”
“Incompetent?” he said quietly. “I know he isn’t stupid, but stupid or not, Horse Clan cannot stand alone against Navarien. Not even Dragon Clan can!”
Larn nodded reluctantly.
“I’m hoping this little trip will persuade Mazel to leave for Denpasser, but if not, there will be dozens of chiefs waiting back in camp. Perhaps I can force them into action.”
Larn hissed in shock.
“Don’t be a fool, I didn’t mean with magic, I meant with words.”
Larn nodded but he didn’t seem convinced.
Shelim smiled then laughed shaking his head. Larn’s lips twitched and he laughed at his suspicions. That was good, he thought. Best not tell Larn that if magic was what it took to save Horse Clan from Mazel’s foolishness then he was more than ready to supply it.
The chief joined the shamen when most of the others had settled down to rest. He nodded to Larn and sat on Shelim’s hastily laid blanket, but he ignored them to stare up at the stars in silent contemplation. The sky was clear now that the storm had blown itself out, and the heavens blazed with starlight and moonlight. The night was utter
ly still. Mazel’s men, those still awake, whispered quietly to one another loath to break the peace that had descended upon the plain. It was the peace of the dead for many thousands of the Lost, but peace all the same.
“How long?” Mazel said.
Shelim understood without being told just what he was referring to. These skies had seen uncountable generations of the people born and die on the plain, living and dying according to tradition. How long would the clans continue to do so?
“Some things are beyond even a shaman.”
Larn nodded. “Too many things. We each live and pass on to our next life according to the will of the God. Perhaps the traditions will also, or the people as a whole.”
Mazel sighed deeply obviously hoping for comfort and receiving none. “If the traditions pass on, then the clans will be dead. Without them we're no better than outclanners.”
Shelim raised a brow at that, but he could see the sense of it. What made a clansman different to say… a Devan trader? Certainly not his skin colour, or eyes or hair—all these things were irrelevant. Did not the God make all peoples regardless of such surface things? Of course he did. The soul was what mattered, not bodies. The soul moved on to its next life according to what the God wished it to learn next. It was an uncomfortable truth that when a clansman died he was just as likely to become an outclanner next time. Just because the people preferred to believe they would return to the plain each time, didn’t make it true. Only shamen thought of these things and didn’t blind themselves to the truth. The chiefs would say shamen had too much time on their hands if all they could think of was irrelevancies such as where the soul came from or moved onto next.
Shelim smiled. It was comforting to know the soul endured, but it did not make the deaths easier to live with. He wanted the people to live and thrive for their full span before moving onto their next lives. It was something he felt sure the God would approve of. After all, the God wished his children to learn. What sense did it make to cut short their lives before they had learned what he wished them to know?
“Are the end times upon us?” Mazel whispered turning his face from the sky to look at Larn.
Larn blew his breath out and looked to Shelim who shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Larn said finally. “I can tell you this; a time of change is upon the people. Those willing to change… no that’s wrong. Whether willing or not, those who change with the times will survive, those who don’t will fade away from the memory of the land.”
Shelim nodded seriously. He had spoken of this very thing with his mentor. Kerrion had seen the change approaching, but they had both been unable to see beyond it. He preferred to believe his divining had failed, and that there was a future beyond these times. Kerrion was less sure. He had great faith in his apprentice’s dreams but was willing to concede that one possibility was as likely as the other. Still, whether a future existed or not, the clans would pass through hard times, dark times to reach it. Of that he was certain beyond all doubt.
Mazel stared at the stars as if storing the memory against the dark times ahead. “It’s a hard council, Larn, but from what we have seen on this journey I cannot dispute your words.”
Shelim saw the opportunity and seized it. “I’m sorry for my hasty words to you in camp, Mazel. You are chief of Horse Clan—undisputed chief. I had no right to threaten calling the tribes.”
Mazel didn’t turn from his inspection of the skies, but he nodded acceptance of the apology. “It was not your place, but you were right about me. I was living in the past, but no more. My eyes are open now. The world is changing, and I will see Horse Clan… all the clans survive to live in it.”
Shelim and Larn glanced at each other. Larn nodded almost imperceptibly giving him the lead. “Even the Dragons?”
Mazel chuckled quietly and slapped Shelim on the shoulder. “Yes, even the cursed Dragons!”
“That is wise I think. I would suggest that after checking the next group of Lost Ones we return to the clan and make ready to leave for Denpasser.”
Larn winced in anticipation, but Mazel’s outburst didn’t materialise. Instead, the chief nodded. “It will be as you say.” He stood and left to find his blankets.
Shelim watched him go. Hard times were coming, soon now, very soon. A heavy toll would be taken of the herd to support the trip to Denpasser. It would take many seasons to repair the damage, but there was no choice. The clans were concentrating all their might on Denpasser. When spring came they would boil out and slaughter Navarien and his outclan army.
The God let it be so.
The next day dawned clear and cold. The snow on the ground crunched as the warriors moved to saddle the horses. A quick bite to eat was taken before they began riding north again. According to Shelim’s calculations, they should reach the site around midday. They were very far north now, and Mazel decided to send scouts ahead to warn of Dragon riders. It wasn’t inconceivable that they would run into Dragon Clan outriders or even outclan patrols from the stone city called Calvados. If the latter happened and the force was large, a quick fight would be undertaken to dissuade the outclanners from pursuing. If the force was small, Mazel might well decide to destroy it, but Shelim was confident he wouldn’t take foolish chances now that his decision to leave for Denpasser had been made.
As it turned out, Shelim’s calculations were wrong. The snow had slowed their progress a small but cumulative amount so that it was mid-afternoon before they came upon the scene. Shelim immediately viewed the disaster from the remove of his other sight and as one with Larn shouted in excitement. Near the centre of the group, three forms glowed with life.
He directed the warriors. “More to the right… no back a little—right there! I see three of them.”
“Only three?” Mazel asked in dismay.
“I’m afraid so,” Larn said sadly.
“But… but there are thousands here! You’re wrong.” Mazel turned to his idle warriors and angrily ordered them to check.
As the warriors began the hopeless task of trying to separate frozen bodies from their kin, the warriors that Shelim had been directing came up with three children. They hurriedly rushed them to the shamen for healing.
“Twin girls about nine summers old I would say. The boy is younger but… the frost bite… his hands,” the warrior said looking sick.
Shelim examined the girls but found nothing of concern. He washed away their sleep with magic, making them blaze with health in the healing realm. They stirred immediately. The boy though would be a cripple for life. Dead black areas floated in his aura. Black was shunned by the living energy that pulsed through the rest of him. The pulsing and surging current of life would not enter the black areas, and no matter how much magic he poured into them the colour didn’t lighten. If he had arrived this morning the boy’s hands might have healed, but magic could not heal death, and the flesh of his hands was indeed dead.
“I can do nothing Larn. Do you have an idea?”
Larn nodded and pulled his dagger. A quick thrust into the tiny chest ended his suffering and sent him to the God to be born anew.
“Put him back with his parents,” Shelim said sadly.
The warrior carried the boy away and did as Shelim bid him.
Mazel’s warriors were only half-heartedly checking the corpses. They had come to respect a shaman’s magic in determining who lived. Mazel was still searching frantically, but finally even he acknowledged the disaster. Another clan-sized group of Lost Ones had died.
The two girls were struggling to be set free. The warriors didn’t quite know what to do for the best, so they let them down. Both girls ran back to their parents and stared at them. Shelim sighed in exasperation at the warrior’s stupidity but corrected his thought when he reached the girls and found they were not hysterical. They acted as clan children would—there were tears but the girls were in control. He was pleased at the discovery. It would make adoption easier.
“Come, they are with the God now,” he sai
d trying to lead them away.
Before they followed, both girls reached down to take something from their parent’s bodies. Two daggers and two long knives were clutched in tiny hands as Shelim led them back to Nyx. Larn took one up onto his horse with him, and Shelim took the other.
Mazel turned the warriors toward the south and the waiting clan. It would take about a tenday to return, and then the round of talks would start to persuade the chiefs of the obvious. With luck they would all be at Denpasser before the season was half over. That would give the clans plenty of time to plan Navarien’s destruction. The Dragons would not be there, and that was a worry, but what could not be altered had to be endured. They would manage without the Dragons—they had to.
“Where are you taking us?” the girl said, clutching her long knife in a white-knuckled grip.
“South to the clan.”
“Which one?”
Shelim smiled pleased again. Most outclanners didn’t know the difference. “I am Shelim, shaman of the Night Wind, but this troop belongs to Horse Clan.”
The girl’s eyes were dry now. She kept glancing across at her sister riding in front of Larn. “I am Amara of—I was Amara of Calvados, but what am I now?”
Good question that. “What is your sister’s name?”
“She was Emma of Calvados.”
He smiled, eternal and universal. Good names for this pair. “What name would you like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you stay with Horse Clan you could ask to be adopted into a family and you would become Amara and Emma of Horse Clan. Or you could stay with us until we reach Denpasser and ask one of the other clans.”
“Will there be lots there?”
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “Lots and lots.”
Amara and Emma nodded at each other. “We will wait. More choice that way.”
Shelim burst out laughing. That was one way to look at it all right. The warriors looked puzzled until he told one of them what the girls had decided. Soon everyone was chuckling and the mood lightened considerably.
Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 Page 104
