The track was three feet wide and rippled like a wave into the wood.
“One of the pacers saw it move into the forest. She says it was long and thin...” He paused and looked at me with doubt. “...like a serpent.”
I nodded. The pieces fit together in my mind. “It is the male captive.”
“It took the dead woman.”
We backtracked its path to where she had lain. The soil was stained with blood from the removal of her skull. I was dissatisfied Dorn would not get a chance to examine the captive woman’s tattoos.
“Her teeth?” I asked, frustration building inside of me.
“Ours.”
I wanted to hunt the serpent myself, but I had to speak to Dorn. I needed his wisdom.
“Have your men track it down and bring back its head.” I broiled with simmering anger as I remembered the captive’s touch. “And, I would have its skin.”
“What about the others?” Rserker motioned to the captives.
“Sack and hang them.”
I did not know what shape these people could take, but the sacks of tightly woven grasses could hold all but the finest grains of sand.
“Where are the woman’s teeth?”
“Cook is boiling her skull down,” Rserker said. “Don’t eat the midday broth.”
His last words were spoken to my back as I left for the cook’s tent.
THE SUN HAD JUST BEGUN to peek over the horizon when I entered the bustling of the cooking area that usually started before first light. A pot of blackened iron hung from a three-stick support. Within, gruel was bubbling thickly around a wooden spoon sticking past the lip.
The three, balding cooks stood by the fire, singing a song to the morning meal. Their puffy, white flesh and shedding black hair gave them a diseased look, but they were vigorous enough to be testy to those who interrupted their ritual morning chant. I slowed my approach to let them finish.
The apple bobs
a boney cob.
And shreds its skin
to show its grin.
A toothy tune,
a boney rune.
A song to make
the curl wood straight!
The three chanted together and I was struck, as always, by their oddness. Their tribe and their name were unknown. All responded to “cook.” One turned my way, and then, quickly scuffled to a smaller pot boiling steamy bubbles past its lid. I followed.
With long tongs, Cook gently lifted out the woman’s skull. A few pieces of flesh clung stubbornly to the bone, but Cook shook it in the liquid, dislodging these last memories of life. Placing the skull in a wooden bowl, the hag passed it to me. White swirls of steam rose out of the black eye sockets. I imagined it was the dead woman’s soul rising to the Hall and took care not to breathe it in.
COOK LEANED CLOSE TO me, breathing the odor of burnt garlic out through short stubs of rotten teeth.
“Beware the notes, for they would float you into a mist of mindly list.”
She reached under her arm to scratch madly at her moss-like armpit hair.
I looked intensely at the woman. She was soft on the outside, but the inside was full of stealth.
“What do you know of these notes?”
She cackled and did a little dance. “The sound is the mount, and the mount is the quest, and the treasure bequeath, that which you want best,” she sang.
Her words fell upon my mind like stones on dirt.
I handed her the piece of white skin that had been left hanging in my tent. “Tell me straight,” I ordered. “What sheds this?”
Cook stepped forward and clutched it from my hands. She sniffed it, licked it and looked at the rising sun through it.
“It is as it shed,” she said.
“No riddles,” I warned, holding up my finger.
“A snake! A snake!” she shrieked, running off with the skin.
Her words confirmed the pacer’s account. I was now sure the male captive had somehow changed into a serpent. It takes powerful magicks to shift from one form to another. Or perhaps the captive was a serpent who had worn a fleshy disguise. It mattered little, for Rserker’s warriors would soon return with word that it was slain, and what it was, it would no longer be.
I gave the still-warm skull my attention. The song Lumen had taken from the captive’s memories was the tune to exit from the District. But the song he had given me in my vision, was the tune to enter. A thrill slicked my guts as the notes danced in my memory. It was time to open the wall of thorns.
“Spill the pot,” I yelled to Cook, as I turned to go.
I did not look back to see if she obeyed me.
Chapter 5: Planning the Attack
Dorn, Rserker and I were speaking loudly as we planned our strategy. Our hearts glowed hearty for it was possible we could finally breach the wall of our enemy.
I had also invited Nethaz to attend the war talk. The giant sat cross-legged on the floor, filling my tent with his bulk. I wanted to be assured of his loyalty and draw upon whatever battle-planning skills he might have.
Dorn had stood close to my side as we planned, but now the heat of his body took my mind from my task. I stepped away, putting some distance between us and looked to Rserker, who stood behind Nethaz.
“We attack at dawn.” I said. “I would taste bread by midday.”
Dorn and Rserker nodded, grins silly upon their faces as they thought of the water, food and even possibly of children who could be in the District.
Nethaz stayed solemn and turned his sky-blue eyes my way. “We’ve beaten their best on the battlefield,” he rumbled in his low voice. “Can we not ask for bread?”
Silence cut the air.
Rserker slapped his hand onto Nethaz’s shoulder. “Ask them for their untouched women, too,” he laughed, trying to make light of the giant’s question.
Dorn, who sometimes could not contain his advice, intoned, “The great warrior, Gonzoeh, would dip his sword into wanton feasts, and wanting more, he fired his blade, in the heart of a burning wreath.”
Rserker frowned at Dorn and took his hand from the giant’s shoulder. “Release me from your teachings, Warden.”
Dorn looked down to hide a smile.
I did not let the prattle of Dorn and Rserker distract me from Nethaz’s request. His eyes were locked onto mine, waiting for my answer.
“They will kill you before you speak,” I warned.
“I will not approach them as a warrior.”
“The warrior who lays down his...” Dorn began.
“What will you approach them as?” I cut Dorn off.
“Ask them for their jewels, and I will present them to our Queen,” Rserker bowed deeply to me.
I waved him away, keeping my eyes on the giant.
“A trader,” Nethaz slowly stood. His head pressed up against the tent roof, and we all took a step back.
The giant still looked to me for permission. “I would approach them as a trader,” he repeated.
“You have nothing to trade,” I reminded him, wondering what he might think he could barter.
Rserker had stilled, and Dorn was finally carefully silent.
“If you announce yourself, you will alert their guard that we are done with waiting.” I slowly pulled my sword from its sheath and pointed it at the giant’s guts to add weight to my words. “And that would be considered a betrayal of the Horde.”
Nethaz spread his hands, “That would not be my intention.”
“But it would be the result, which is just as damning.”
Dorn waited, his eyes darting between us. Rserker’s hand moved to rest lightly on the pommel of his sword. The giant’s insolence was unbearable. I wanted to strike him down for the likelihood that he would become a traitor but could clearly see there was no anger in Nethaz, no disrespect even though his words should never have been spoken. He stood looking down on me with his face full of hope.
I held Nethaz’s gaze until I was sure he understood how dangerously close he was
treading.
Finally, he lowered his eyes and spoke. “What is your command, my Queen?”
I remembered what the giant had said about the trapped souls in the Hall. I knew he felt that our warring would only worsen our lot. I met Rserker’s eyes knowing he was waiting for my order. Cutting the giant down would lose a mighty warrior I had need of. Letting him live left me crawling with doubt, alert to the threat of his strange ideas and ways.
I lowered my eyes from my general’s silent question and sheathed my sword. “See if you can rouse an army from those who have grown lazy in waiting. We will enter the East wall at dawn,” I ordered.
Rserker gave a curt nod. His face was full of shame for Nethaz was his wúsc-bearn. “I will instruct him better, Sister,” he promised before bowing.
Rserker left, motioning for the giant to follow. Nethaz squeezed out of the tent’s slit, the hides stretching over his broad shoulders.
From outside, we heard the sound of a solid slap followed by Rserker’s angry words. “You can thank the goddess for your life!” he barked.
Dorn’s warm voice drew my attention back inside the tent. “A wise leader weighs the scales, and listens to the warden’s tales, and from the mind, and to the mouth, wisdom flows like silver trout.”
“Ha!” I scorned. “Bread will flow to my mouth delivered on a river of blood, and I shall be Queen, evermore.”
These were brave words, and I held my stance a moment beyond them. Then, I smiled and moved to sit down and listen to my mentor’s words. He was clearly bursting to advise me.
“Once, only once, never twice and not thrice, a Queen was born with a blessing from the goddess.” Dorn sat down in front of me, pulling his sandaled feet in under his strong calves.
His knee was touching mine, and I shifted backwards. Then, I rested my hands in my lap and smiled at Dorn, ready for his words.
Dorn studied my face before speaking. I wondered what he was thinking, what he was plotting. He reached out his right hand, holding it in the air between us, waiting. I frowned at his hand and looked up to see his eyes twinkling at my discomfort. My face reddened under his glance, but I did not give him my hand. He shrugged good-naturedly and placed his hand on his knee before he continued his story.
“And, all who saw her, all who heard her speak and watched her lead, and all who felt her strength of spirit, followed the Queen,” he recited in his storyteller’s rhythm. “And the Horde grew. And, the weight of the problems pressed. Yet, the leader’s shoulders never bowed, for she was chosen to be challenged, born to abide the sorrows of her time, set apart to walk alone...”
Again, Dorn reached out his hand. I looked at his palm hanging in the air between us and then back at his face. His playfulness was gone.
Sighing dramatically, I placed my hand in his as if we would shake.
“What is it that you are up to Warden?” I asked.
But Dorn only smiled encouragingly and squeezed my hand. His skin was warm, the calluses scratching my palm with little thrills.
“And all who followed the Queen, pledged their lives to Goddess, through her.” He turned over my sword hand and looked at the skin of my palm.
I enjoyed his touch, but I was guarded. Dorn usually stood to tell a tale, pacing back and forth, acting out the words. Never had he sat before me so closely. Never had he focused on me so intently.
His eyes rested on my mouth while he continued. “All swore loyalty to the Queen—to the DreÓdreng—warrior for Goddess. Some gave their lives and some...” Dorn lifted my hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the top of my knuckles. “...gave their love.”
My lips parted. He was serious, as serious as any man pledging to the woman of his choice. I yanked my hand from his.
“I thought you were going to tell me a tale!” I accused, standing in one fluid movement.
Dorn slowly stood and bowed as if my obedient servant, yet I felt he was in control of both of us. “Tales come in twos. The story happens, and the telling follows. Which do you need first?”
My insides bristled at his choice of words. I turned my gaze to ice. “What I need, Chronicle Warden, is time alone to plan tomorrow’s attack.”
Dorn’s amber eyes sparked at my tone. We stood face-to-face, and I could hear my own breathing.
“Alone.”
A muscle jumped in Dorn’s jaw, and for a moment, I did not know what he would dare. My eyes narrowed in warning. Then, Dorn lowered his gaze to the ground. His face softened as he calmed. When he raised his head, his lips were set with resolve. He bowed and left my tent.
Alone, I placed my hand against my throat. My pulse leapt like a trapped rabbit. Dorn had never asked for more than to serve me, and I had been glad of that. I had been content to avoid anything that could affect my rule.
And yet, I was not overly displeased that he had taken this next step. In fact, if he had chosen a different night, a different approach, I may have been able to accept him.
A tightness in my chest rose at the thought.
Dorn was the man I respected enough to be with, but my allowing my feelings for him to grow would put me in a vulnerable state. I could not afford to need any man. I could not meet the expense of need and still control the Horde.
WHEN I HAD BEEN A CHILD, I had been consumed by a desire to please my father with the right answers to his questions. But more so, I was determined to get my own way, and one day, that added scheme had led to a battle of wills between my father and me.
“The marauder wants; the quarry needs,” my father had said. “Which do you want to be?”
I had leapt from his lap, bracing my feet on the stones in front of our home and waving my arm as if it held a dagger.
“I want to be a marauder!” I had shouted.
My father had looked sternly at me from beneath grey, furry brows. His hair wild around his jagged features—clouds of grey, brownish wisps flying free from a braid that could never contain his magnificent mane.
“To want is to wish,” he said in his Overland lilt. “If you only wish for it, you can plan to seize it, for your mind will be clear from the craze of your heart.”
“But to need!” Father slammed his hand on his knee, making an old scar stand out white on the reddened flesh. “To need is to cloud your mind. To need is to weaken your will. To need is to be unable to walk away when you cannot take hold of what you must have.”
I shuffled my feet, feeling a child’s guilt for my earlier claim that I needed a new mount.
“To need that which you cannot grasp,” Father lifted his thick fist and pointed a finger at me. “That is when you are open to danger.”
I looked up past his metal-studded, leather armour, past his grizzled beard, to find those hard, grey eyes glinting down at me. He towered, so far above, it seemed as if his head was in the clouds. I knew he wanted me to understand I should never, ever need anything, but I had driven my hoarge to death riding over the shale hills, and I needed another.
“Very well, father.” I pushed my chin out even further and put my hands on my slim hips. “I want another hoarge mount,” I finished with a little nod.
“Hmmmmmm,” the growl came deep from my father’s chest as he looked down on me with stormy disapproval. My skinny arms fell to my sides in defeat.
“You will keep at drill on foot,” he placed his large hand on top of my head. “This is the price you pay for killing a good mount.”
My heart pounded in my young chest, pumping blood into arms and legs that wanted to fling themselves out in fury. But I dared not. My father’s wrath was many times more frightening than mine.
My breath came loud and jagged as I gave him the expected response. “Yes, father.” My lips pressed tight after the words.
He grabbed me by the chin and knelt to look into my eyes, which were tearing up with unreleased anger. Roughly, he smeared a tear across my cheek with his thumb.
“This is need. Learn to run the shale on foot, and you will no longer need a mount.”
Chapter 6: Poison on the Thorns
Each step we took on the undefended, grassless field pounded out the warning of our approach. We were thirty-two strong, and we were armed. There were no bodies to step over for the dead had been carried to the skies in the clutches of the Griffain. There was none left living that could resist our coming. Ahead of us the blinding white wall of twisted wood barred our way, bristling with thorns.
At the east side of the District, I motioned the warriors to a halt. Rserker’s men relayed the order to those who were behind me. Their shouts took flight like startled birds on the morning air. The sentinel pacer walked with me to the wall to show the spot where she had seen the seven come through. I released her to the forest, where she could watch from safety.
Rserker moved to stand at my left and tilted his head back to look at the barrier of sun-bleached branches. I got a rare glimpse under his beard where the skin on his neck was tight with anticipation.
The white skull felt light in my hands. I had practiced playing the jewel against the teeth for hours the night before. I had not slept until I could recreate the song the male captive had given me with his tongue.
I felt sure the notes would work. With my focus on getting into the District and raiding for supplies, I would not be tracking the captive. It was a clever move. He sacrificed all who were left behind the wall to ensure his escape. But it would only delay my hunt. The serpent underestimated my taste for vengeance. He had violated me. He would pay.
But for now, here and now, at the gates that had foiled us for too long, I would discover whether I was correct or whether two songs were needed to enter. With steady hands, I played to the wood, tapping the green jewel against the skull’s lipless teeth.
The Precious Quest Page 5
