The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2)

by Jerry Autieri

  "We have to get back to Lethos," Turo whispered, grabbing her hand. "We have to leave this night."

  Myrakka interrupted. "You two have interfered enough. By my rights as eldest of the Manifested, I order you bound to Vanikka until such a time as it is safe for you to leave again."

  Turo again shot to his feet, cursing. Kafara did not listen to what he said. Instead, her mind was on a distant land where a great evil was taking shape and the only beings strong enough to thwart it planned to stand aside for a meaningless pact left over from the end of the First Age. Myrakka had condemned the world to death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lethos had never made a lonelier trek in his life. Everywhere along the path to the village he found the signs of a desperate flight. Bloodied cloaks and rags tossed into the grass. Swords and shields dropped randomly like signposts marking a road. Dribbles and splashes of blood clung like brown rain to the dried grass, dozens of footprints having smashed the blades flat. He held Grimwold in both arms, never tiring or slowing his pace. He trudged along, trying to tell himself that he was headed to a welcome in the village any moment. Yet whatever he told himself, his mind fed him a sour taste of his reception.

  The haphazard flight of warriors meant either they had been routed or something had caused them to abandon reason and scatter. A raging Minotaur would be good cause for the latter choice.

  The sun nearly vanished and the blue cloak of stars was pulling overhead. The bird song in the distance mocked him as he followed the ruination back to the hall. He kept expecting someone to emerge from the sparse trees scattered along the fields that led home. Yet he knew no one would come. At best he spotted a squirrel leaping from one branch to another. Instead he focused on the grass ahead of him. It would be his luck for him to arrive in town heroically carrying the war chief and then trip over a lost sword. Not that he anticipated a merry gathering, but he still had his pride.

  What had once been known as Sigurdsvik--and now simply as Greenvik--emerged out of the gathering darkness. Lethos was disheartened to see so few lights in the clusters of A-frame homes. At least the main long house had its front doors opened and golden light flickering within. All surviving warriors would have retreated there, for either rest or aid. He saw no movement anywhere, despite the signs of inhabitants.

  "You could hear an ant die," Lethos said, ostensibly to Grimwold. He did not like talking to himself, though he found it a habit.

  He turned sideways to fit Grimwold feet first through the front doors of the hall. A blazing hearth fire bathed him in warmth and the pungent scent of sweat and blood filled the room. He stood in the doorway, looking down on the gathered warriors who stared back in white-eyed silence. Nearly two dozen men had piled into the hall, and half as many women accompanied them. The warriors either clustered together on benches or lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. They were in various stages of health. The best among them appeared hale, while others clung to life while wrapped in blood-stained bandages.

  Lethos stood with Grimwold in his arms, scanning the room for a friendly face and finding none. Only this morning these same men had greeted him as an old friend. He had been a hero of the battle of trolls, after all. Now, despite the snapping hearth fire, the room had grown cold. Lethos cleared his throat.

  "He is not dead." He proffered Grimwold as if he weighed no more than a bundle of sticks. "This arrow has to be removed, but I fear I cannot risk it myself. I need help."

  The words took a moment to bring a stir back to the room. Lethos carried Grimwold to a table and laid him on it. He carefully pulled away Grimwold's cloak and brushed his dark, sweaty hair from his friend's face. Then he glanced expectantly for someone to aid him. His eyes fell on an older man with a face and shirt both splattered with blood. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and his face sagged with the burdens of his years. His mouth was lost behind a thick gray beard, equally blood speckled. Lethos recognized him as Magnor, who was what he would call a surgeon. Of course, barbarian surgery was limited to limb removal and crude stitches, but Lethos had no other word for the profession. When their eyes met, Magnor reluctantly came forward.

  "He's still your war chief," Lethos said. He spoke as if he were revealing a secret to a friend. The old man simply nodded and leaned over the arrow protruding from Grimwold's chest. It was like a signal for the others to relax. Men lay back down or eased back on their benches. Two of the healthier men wandered over, one with a bloody wrap around his forehead.

  "This is in deep, very close to the heart," Magnor said. "He should be dead even if it did not strike his heart. Plenty else in there to cut open and bleed a man to death from the inside."

  Lethos touched the dull ache in his own chest. "But he lives and the arrow must come out. Can you do it?"

  Magnor forgot his hesitation with Lethos as he considered the arrow wound. He prodded the shaft and gaged Grimwold's reactions, which were nothing. Magnor grunted.

  "It is odd that he be so deeply asleep when he has taken no blows to the head. I would have to dig out the arrow. There is no chance of pushing it through the body, as that would kill him."

  "Actually," Lethos said then paused, touching his finger to his lips. Magnor and the others looked expectantly at him. "I don't think he would die. No amount of cutting or digging will hurt him over much."

  The three men glanced at each other, and Magnor folded his arms. "I've heard the rumors of the war chief's proof against blades. But here he is with an arrow sticking out of his chest and knocked out like a drunk. So something can hurt him, and I don't want to be the man who accidentally killed the war chief."

  "It is a stone arrowhead," Lethos said, now examining the wound himself. The links of broken mail revealed Grimwold's waxy flesh which puckered up around the shaft. Only a tiny stream of blood had issued from it. Lethos feared pulling the arrow out would be like uncorking a bottle and blood would geyser into the air. "It can be withdrawn, but I fear breaking the head off before it is extracted."

  Magnor leveled his gaze at Lethos. "How do you know it's a stone arrowhead?"

  "I saw it in flight, just before it hit him."

  Again the three men exchanged wary glances. Lethos's face warmed as he realized how he must now sound to these men. "Look, here is your war chief in dire need. Can you help him or not?"

  The answer came with Magnor's nod to the man with the head bandage. He stepped to another bench and retrieved a bloody set of knives and tongs. A woman bought him a bowl of water and rags. More men began to gather, though Lethos would rather have looked away. Grimwold was a still as death, and if he truly died, Lethos would follow. Their lives were intertwined in ways he still did not comprehend, but he remembered the madness he endured prior to bonding with Grimwold. He never wanted to revisit those days.

  Magnor used tongs to break more of the chain coat and expose Grimwold's undershirt, which he tore away. He rinsed his tools in the water and patted them off with a cloth. Lethos could only think of rust, but the tools shimmered cleanly in the golden firelight. Magnor's hand trembled as he raised a long, thin blade over the entry wound.

  "I'll cut away the flesh to loosen the arrow, then I'll give it a pull. Hopefully it's not caught on a rib. It was stone, you say?" Lethos nodded, and Magnor grumbled. The onlookers murmured at the news as well. He noted how they looked at him and how none came close. He stood alone by Grimwold's head, with only Magnor close.

  The knife slipped easily into the wound and dark blood bubbled up and a thin line of it rolled toward his back. Magnor seemed to be exploring with the blade, and his eyes kept flicking to Grimwold's face. He did not move, and Lethos felt nothing but the same ache he had endured since the arrow had struck. Magnor sawed around and then gave a gentle tug on the arrow shaft.

  "It's in tight, but I think if I am careful I can draw it back along the same path and out of his flesh. I've never dealt with a stone arrow before, but I am guessing it was not barbed. I'll cut a bit more to ease the arrow along." Lethos shook his head
and realized how hideous this whole thing would be if it had been a barbed arrowhead. Did men really do such things to each other? Of course, he knew the answer but preferred not to consider it. He stared at Grimwold's face rather than watch Magnor at his gory work. The waxy flesh made him look like another person. Lethos had never felt so silent or so alone. For the last year, Grimwold had been a constant presence in his mind, even when not actively trying to contact each other telepathically. Now he was just--gone. He was not dead, but he was not present in any sense.

  "I'm going to try extracting it now." Magnor's voice quavered, and Lethos chanced a glance at the arrow. More blood had seeped around the wound, but Lethos was watching it heal even as Magnor began extracting the arrow. "What's this?"

  "We heal from wounds much faster than you do," Lethos said. Magnor gave him a confused look. "I'm not sure why he has not expelled the arrow yet. It is enchanted, I fear."

  "Well, I don't know how to treat enchanted arrows. Wouldn't it have been nice to tell me that first?" Magnor shook his head and tugged the arrow even as the cuts folded shut around the shaft. "This isn't coming out the normal way. I'm no sorcerer. I'm just an old warrior who has spared a man or two from a fatal wound. This is beyond me."

  "But you are the only one I know who can help."

  "What about your other friends, the woman and the man?" Magnor was already cleaning his blade again, washing away Grimwold's blood.

  "They had to leave us for a while, and I don't know how to find them. I'm not sure they would know what to do. He needs a surgeon to remove this arrow."

  Magnor stared at him and the onlookers bowed their heads. "I don't know what to tell you. The war chief is not dead, nor is he alive. We can wait a few days to see what happens, but a new leader must be chosen if he does not improve. In times like these, the people need a strong leader."

  "Just try to pull the arrow out." Lethos stepped closer, and half the men and all the women stepped back. He paused, surprised at their fear, but then remembering what they must have witnessed him doing. He raised his hands in peace. "Please, I do not trust my own hands to guide the arrow correctly. You have the most experience."

  The crowd waited on Magnor, who tucked his chin down in thought. At last he wiped his hands and gripped the arrow with one and braced the other beside it on Grimwold's chest. "If this snaps, I'm not going to be responsible for it."

  "Just do your best. I know of no other to help, and I fear the longer that arrowhead stays in him the worse he will become."

  Magnor started to pull slowly. Grimwold's flesh sucked at the arrow as it withdrew. Heads leaned in to watch. More of the arrow slid from the wound, sticky with blood. Lethos felt the pain in his chest grow sharper. Sweat beaded on Magnor's forehead and his arm trembled from the slow but forceful pace.

  Lethos saw the stone arrowhead begin to emerge.

  Then Magnor leapt back with a yelp. Yellow fire and heat flared where the arrow had been, and with a dull pop the stone arrowhead sucked back into Grimwold's flesh. Lethos felt again as if he had been struck with a spike in his chest, and he too fell aside clutching the spot. Everyone else shouted and scattered. Grimwold lay motionless, unchanged.

  "It burned my palm!" Magnor held up his hand, revealing a red line that had already begun to blister. Lethos recovered and rushed to Grimwold. The wound had healed over, but the arrowhead was still sealed inside his flesh. He could feel the shadow of it in his own chest.

  "It jumped back into his body," said the man with the bandaged head. "It was like a fish desperate to jump back into the sea. It just popped back into the wound."

  "This is sorcery," Magnor said. "The war chief is cursed. And you ..."

  Lethos felt every eye turn to him. He had let the bull rule him, and without even asking he knew he had turned on his own. The story was written in the eyes of the men accusing him. He nodded.

  "Take War Chief Grimwold with you wherever you go," Magnor said. "But you can't stay with us. Leave. Find help elsewhere. We will find a new leader among our own kind."

  Lethos knew to argue was futile. He looked down at Grimwold's stillness and envied him for it. He had to find help in this land of strangers or Grimwold and he both were as good as dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lethos had hoped for at least a night's rest before being packed off, but he had underestimated both his status and the fear he generated. Magnor, acting like the new war chief, ordered men to ensure he left with Grimwold. The men assigned to him blanched at their assignment but did not protest. Lethos had never seen warriors act so sheepishly around him. They stayed out of arm's reach as if ready to flee in an instant, but followed him everywhere as he packed his meager belongings.

  He stood now at the center of Greenvik, which was still wrapped in silence with a sea of stars overhead. His escorts huddled together with their spears readied. Grimwold was laid out in a cart and piled with gray wolf pelts against the cold. Lethos tossed four leather bags into the cart, and one of Grimwold's former men brought war gear to load along with it, a sword, shield, and helmet.

  "No pony to pull it?" Lethos asked. His voice was small in the quiet of the night. Only crickets chirped. The warriors looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  Taking up the cart as if he were a common pack animal, he began rolling it toward the edge of the village. Halfway across he wondered if having him pull the cart was a pun on his bull form, but when he turned back his guards had vanished. It was just him, the cold night, and a frightened village pretending to sleep.

  "None of you are smart enough for that," he mumbled. "Come on, Grimwold, let's take our toys and go home."

  Grimwold had nothing to say, and apparently would say nothing ever again. Lethos now wished to hear Grimwold's rough, blustery voice. Certainly he tended to brag more than was seemly and his stories were usually some dull barbarian tale of burning down a village and taking all the young women. Yet leadership came naturally to him, and he knew what to do when few others did. Yes, Lethos could make some predictions about his immediate future, but he did not know strategy. He had been in training to become a spy, not a good one either, if he remembered his lessons correctly. He was never going to make decisions, just gather information. He never wanted to make decisions. Those were for someone else to handle.

  Right now his only decision was where to point the cart, and he could handle that much. He wanted to shout back to the village, "You know this is an island, right? I can't go far." However, he kept his mouth pressed in a thin line and trudged north until he was far enough away to build a small fire and settle in for a night of fitful sleep. He rested on his side, letting his face bathe in the warmth. He had backed up the cart to let Grimwold's feet at least face the fire. No telling what he felt in his current state or if he needed to be kept warm at all. Lethos began to drift off, hating his loneliness and wishing Kafara and Turo would return. As he fell asleep, he had a gnawing feeling they were not coming back soon.

  He awoke with the first stains of dawn, still in the same position, but the campfire burned down to embers. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then remembered Grimwold and leapt to his feet. He had not changed, nor had he stirred all night. He remained with his eyes closed, a waxen figure of his former self. Lethos shared the dull ache in his chest that marked the spot of Grimwold's wound. He pulled back the furs, feeling the body heat escape, and examined the wound. But for some crusted blood left over, the flesh was unmarred. The area seemed a bit discolored, but he could not be sure what it was like originally. Lethos pressed the hard muscle as if expecting to find the stone just below the surface, but he knew it had gone back to its original position. He could feel it deep in his own chest. Flipping the skins back over Grimwold, he reached out with his mind to find the same blankness from the day before.

  Lethos's stomach growled, and he went to a sack of provisions and extracted a wedge of cheese. He had been given salted meats and fish along with some grains and a small cooking pot. The people of Greenvik had
not wanted him to die of starvation, but just wanted him to be gone. He could not blame them, after likely killing so many of their sons in a pointless battle. If the damn raiders hadn't attacked.

  "Well, there's a thought," he said, biting into the cheese. It was salty and dry, but he was hungry enough to ignore it. He leaned against the cart and talked out his plan with Grimwold.

  "A fair number of the raiders were killed, and they must have been in a panic seeing me charging at them and their weapons breaking on my flesh. Would they have grabbed all their ships? Probably not. I might be able to get us into one and find a crew to take us north. What do you think?"

  Grimwold's hair stirred in the morning breeze and somewhere from Greenvik a rooster crowed. He hadn't gone as far as he had thought he had.

  "Well, you're agreeable this morning. I think it's a fine idea as well. It's better than anything else I've considered. Walking to the end of the island and then crying wasn't much of a plan, was it."

  Lethos felt better about himself now. He had come up with his own plan. No one on Reifell would know what to do with Grimwold. Yet High King Eldegris had a magic sword and was himself at least as unusual as he and Grimwold were. Eldegris had nearly died in the defense of Norddalr, but recovered from his wounds with the same ease as a Manifested. If anyone would know what to do, it would be him. So he needed a ship to carry them north.

  Then he remembered the ghost ship. The enormous white ship with five masts and three banks of oars. It had preceded the raiders, hiding them in its wake. Whatever it had been, his power wanted him to know it was dangerous. The ship had also been heading north.

  "It still doesn't change my choice," Lethos said, finishing the last bite of cheese before fishing out a skin of mead from the cart. "North is where I can get help now."

  He set out with the earliest light, rolling across fields of brown grass and waves of dead leaves. The cart bounced and shuddered, never meant for more than pulling hay from one field to the next, but it delivered Grimwold to the shore where a raider ship sat abandoned on the surf. Lethos smiled, glanced back up the slope to see shadows of gulls and sunbirds still circling the carnage. Sometimes a flock of them burst into the air, likely spooked by another scavenger.