Marin sat staring. Thoughts of being brave and bold, scattered. He had never encountered a Mysra before . . . or any other race beyond his familiar WynSprign. The Mysra, feeling the weight of Marin’s stare, glanced up from the kill he now was quickly skinning on a flat rock and scowled. The glow from the fire enhanced the Mysra’s own boulder-like appearance, the gray rippling muscles.
The Mysra could plainly see that the boy was loose from his ropes, but he had no concern at this. The boy hasn’t had food or water in over a day. Out here, if he tried to escape, he wouldn’t get far. It wasn’t worth the small effort of retying. He resumed cutting.
Marin, trying to steady his trembling body, dug deep within himself and tried again to summon courage. “Wh—what’s your name?” The sound of his own voice was small in the open air. His throat bobbed as he caught the glow of the Mysra’s bloodied knife.
The scowling Mysra remained at his task. He pierced the sliced rabbit meat on skewers, and then responded. His voice low and gravelly: “It would do you good not to ask questions.” The familiar basso of his voice sounded again.
Marin sat up a little straighter. He was weak. Dizzy. “Well . . . I”—he paused to choose words carefully, leaning back on the boulder. He had to be smart at this. He acted casual— “I just figured that you and I will probably be together for some time, and I figured I might as well know your name, instead of only knowing of you as a Mysra . . . and that’s all.”
Silence.
The Myrsa looked up. The look on his face read as if he were offended, but he considered for a moment. He looked back down at his completed work. “Gish,” he muttered, low.
“Gish.” Marin nodded slightly. That’s right. That’s what Trayvor had called him. “Gish, my name is Marin.”
Silence.
Gish was not talkative and honestly . . . he couldn’t give a shit.
The flames crackled when Gish set the meat over the fire. They both sat in silence. The shade from the great rocks behind them was a comfort as the rising sun was quickly beginning to warm the earth.
Marin sat still while the rabbits cooked. He didn’t want to anger Gish by asking too many questions. Gish was strong, short-tempered, and had a knife—a big, jagged knife. Marin was curious about his own feelings in this moment. He should be terrified, and he was a bit scared, but not to the extent he would have imagined. The initial doom he’d felt, had diminished some. He was thankful for Lanico’s training.
Lanico. He started feeling things again. What am I going to do without Lanico? He would have awakened by now and Marin would be nowhere in sight. He imagined Lanico looking all over their realm and up into the trees, fetching food for both of them only to realize that he had forgotten Marin was gone. His heart sank.
In his state of fear, he wasn’t hungry, but he realized that he hadn’t eaten or drank water in well over a day. The savory rabbit meat was sizzling now on the open fire. Marin licked his parched lips. He took a deep breath in and his throat and lungs felt dry. He needed water. He needed to eat. His body needed nourishment if he was to survive . . . whatever lay ahead of him.
“Gish,” Marin began with a raspy voice. Gish returned an unpromising glance, waiting. “I don’t suppose” —he tried to manage a nice tone— “I could have some water and some of your meat? I haven’t eaten in quite some time.”
Without saying a word, Gish slowly leaned closer to the fire and pulled out a small rabbit flank. It was charred and hot. In that moment, Marin couldn’t imagine anything more delectable. Gish leaned toward Marin extending his arm to hand him the skewer.
Gish stared at Marin’s untied wrists, as if to say, “I noticed you freed yourself,” and flicked his gaze to look Marin in the eye.
“Th—thank you, Gish.” Marin nervously stuttered.
Gish then turned and poured water from a canteen into a small cup and placed it closer to Marin.
Marin quickly took a small bite of the hot sizzling meat. It was too hot to chew properly so, he simply swallowed it. The hot meat burned at his throat as it slid down. His eyes watered. It didn’t matter—in that moment—it was perfect. He turned and quenched his burning throat with the water Gish supplied.
“This tastes really great . . . thank you,” Marin said, adding another mouthful of hot meat.
The scowl lessened.
Marin looked around at the endless expanse before them and noticed something missing. “Gish,” he asked, with another small steaming bite of rabbit rolling about in his mouth, “What happened to your horse?”
Gish swallowed hard. The corners of his mouth turned down. The scowl returned.
Oh, shit, Marin thought-fear resuming.
“The horse is dead,” Gish grunted.
Marin gulped. He was taken aback. Did Gish kill the horse? Did it run away? Did it get injured and left behind? Did he leave it somewhere on purpose? Marin knew better than to ask questions—he wanted to avoid ending up like the rabbits on the skewers—or whatever had happened to the horse.
Marin reached for his tooth necklace, to hold it in his hand for comfort. His hand patted his chest, and then feverishly felt around his neck. No. It was gone! He suddenly knelt, scrambling. He looked around next to him, on the ground.
Gish glanced up curiously. His small aqua-colored eyes focused on Marin’s sudden odd behavior. Marin patted the ground and ran his fingers over the loose dirt around the rocks, picking up bits of charred wood and tufts of fur. He looked over the boulder and near the rock he had used as a pillow. Nothing. He had lost it. Plain and simple. He’d lost it. His most valued possession . . . gone.
He felt a stone growing at the back of his throat. It was the one and only thing he had from his mother.
Gish turned his curious gaze from Marin and glanced to the horizon. His voice was low as he said unexpectedly, “Up, boy.”
Marin obediently stood. His feet and legs were sore. His head, still spinning. He patted his chest and neck again in vain. Lanico had spent hours telling young Marin about the great adventures of his mother and father—how his mother had taken this tooth from an enemy she had defeated. Even though the thought of keeping a tooth from a slain enemy was a little . . . savage to Marin, he deeply appreciated having it. It was so familiar on his chest. He often grabbed it to feel the point pressed into his thumb. A defeated feeling swept over him.
Gish rolled up mats and loaded items into various satchels, including Marin’s. He seemed to be in a hurry.
“Where are we going?” Marin asked, regretting the question as soon as the words left his lips.
Gish grunted.
“I guess we’ll be walking,” continued Marin, “since there is no horse. I imagine we have far to walk.”
“Yes!” Gish snapped, and Marin inhaled sharply.
As they walked from the small mountain in the middle of the Yellow Vast, Marin felt growing despair and every muscle in his body groaned painfully. With great acquiescence, he ambled onward. He was alone with this threatening monster. He was worried for his guardian, and he had lost his tooth necklace. He would not dare asking Gish about it. Because it was a Mysra tooth on the necklace, he’d—well, Marin didn’t even want to think about Gish’s reaction. Marin gulped hard. He looked back as the mountain slowly shrank into the distance, every step becoming increasingly regrettable.
Chapter Eight
Lost son
Lanico, wrapped tightly in his green cloak, was cold and damp with dew. His bones ached. Lying on the hard, bare ground all night was not ideal for an elder no matter how fit he might be, and he was by far the fittest. He stood slowly, his bones creaking as he straightened and groaned. With annoyance, he shook small twigs and pine needles from his hair and cloak.
He had slept just at the edge of Horse’s Clearing, sheltered by the tree line but with a view he seldom saw in the Great Mist. The morning sky was painted in brilliant fuchsia hues. Looking out over this expanse, he sighed. How beautiful. Wherever Marin is this moment, I pray he’s enjoying this pain
ted sight. He swallowed dryly. There was an ache in his chest.
The twinkling song from nearby morning sparrows reminded him that time was not on his side. Lanico started tracking as the morning brightened. Even though WynSprigns had great vision, it was not perfect. In order to track well, he depended on the sunlight. Marin had last been seen at the edge of this clearing.
Lanico looked thoroughly near his camping site, kept purposely small to leave little trace and to aid his tracking. He noticed several footprints in the moist ground. The growing light highlighted an area of impact, of something large that had landed here. Then his attention was drawn to the tracks that led past the boundary.
No.
Marin prefers the company of trees. Perhaps he stayed here, on the border. The more Lanico looked at the untouched foliage, the more it became clear that Marin was not in this area. At the tree line there were recent hoof prints. He studied the tracks. The horse had approached at a walk from the clearing and turned galloping away. He wondered, wrestling with his thoughts. He did not want to leave the border—What if Marin is close? He glanced back at the area of impact, then at the branches above it. Broken branches dangled and seemed in some places aligned directly, more-or-less, in the same straight direction to the impact on the ground beneath. He couldn’t help shake the thought that Marin had been in trouble here. That he may have fallen from a perch above.
It was a decision not easily made. However, Lanico decided to follow the feeling in his gut. He’d follow the horse tracks that headed beyond the clearing. If Marin was on a horse, he’d be farther away and it would take more time to reach him on foot. Lanico needed to move. He stepped out from Horse’s Clearing and into the brilliance of the Yellow Vast. Immediately the expanse, the growing brightness, was overwhelming. His eyes were shocked with the adjustment. His heart pounded. He hadn’t seen expanse in many years and was used to everything being in close proximity in the woods—for far too long.
Determined, he followed the horse tracks, shading his eyes against the almost-blinding sun. Lanico sighed hard in frustration and wiped his brow. He actually felt himself sweating. He always loathed direct sunlight. Even when he and Marin sparred and trained, they were exercised well, but he did not recall sweating as he did immediately upon stepping into this new environment . . . It was hot. He drank minimally from his canteen, an effort to preserve his strength and the supply.
Gray Rock was the only destination for a great distance. Legend claimed the collection of large boulders and monoliths had been thrust into the earth, into the middle of the Yellow Vast. There was only one other area like it on the other side of the Odana kingdom—the Jaspirian ruins. Both locations were believed to have been made by Fray Jaspia herself in a fit of wrath. She was first created daughter of Odan, the most beautiful Fray of them all. Aside from her believed fury, she was known for being the Fray of rock and song. It was said that she hurled the monoliths in a torrent of anger against her father, the god of all. Why had her fury been so great? No one quite knew the answer, and Lanico had never met this elder Fray aunt to ask.
Lanico thought over his memory of Gray Rock. There should be a brook before the formation—the direction the horse seemed to have headed. He’d fill his canteen there. It could take days . . . But something tugged at him. He remembered from his past that there was something to be cautious of once at the brook. A danger lurked there. Nothing specific came to mind—only a faint whisper of caution. It had been many years after all . . .
Well, if it was that important, I’m certain I would have remembered.
He continued to track the horse’s strides through thigh-high golden grass. Luckily, this made tracking the horse easier—and would hide Lanico from others if need be. The horse seemed to have galloped a long distance before slowing down. Lanico was hoping to find more clues. Anything . . .
How did he find himself here, now, after all this long life?
Chapter Nine
Swaths of black blood
Gish held strong solid strides, while the smaller Marin worked to keep up with his pace through the burn of aching, battered muscles.
“I sure miss your horse,” breathed Marin.
“Me too,” grumbled Gish.
Marin was delighted to hear a response from his captor. It made him feel only slightly more valued.
After a brief silence, Gish stated abruptly, “I had to kill him.”
Marin turned to look up at him. “Who? . . . The horse?” He was startled that the Mysra was suddenly engaging in conversation.
“Yes.” Gish paused. “After you fell from his backside, I turned Gladin around too hard.” Gish breathed out a sigh. “He snapped two legs and fell. The horse—he had to be killed after that.”
Marin was astonished at this revelation—mostly that the Mysra seemed to regret the killing. Marin also noticed the dirt and yellow grass stains that trailed along Gish’s side and covered his scraped forearm. They evidenced the force of the fall.
“So, that must have been . . . very difficult to do,” Marin said, trying to feel empathy with his menacing captor.
“Yes,” Gish answered shortly.
There was another moment of silence. Gish seemed to be deeply upset. “I’m sorry that you had to do that,” Marin said, squinting up at the Mysra.
Gish had his focus ahead. He glanced down at Marin briefly, though they were both struggling to talk and walk fast at the same time.
After a moment of thought, Marin asked, “So you carried me and all these things we’re lugging around, all by yourself? How long did you have to walk like that?”
Gish answered, “Long.”
They walked on for what seemed like hours, in silence. Through the sound of the rustling golden grass and Gish’s heavy footsteps, Marin could hear something rumbling in the distance. On the horizon, two wavy figures were on the move, fast.
“Gish—"
“—Shh!” Gish ordered. “Down, boy!”
They both hit the ground to lay flat in the tall grass.
The rumbling grew louder. As the sound of the thundering gallops flew near, there was no question—they had been spotted.
Marin’s breath quickened. He stared into the forest of yellow grass around him.
Gish fumbled in his pocket and took out a small pouch that contained a light purple powder. He quickly held this to his mouth and swallowed its contents. The smell of brass filled the air. He pulled the strings to close it up again and pushed it back into his pocket. He felt for the handle of the long sack Marin had been carrying on their journey.
Gish’s voice was low. “Stay down. Stay quiet. Stay still.” He took the sack and grabbed the rolled sleeping mat from Marin’s fingers as well, then popped up to start his approach toward the riders closing in.
Marin obeyed. Without moving, he looked up and through the grasses could barely make out the sight of two scowling Mysra riders. Gish seemed smaller as he approached them—or perhaps it was because he was not mounted on a horse. They looked even more menacing than Gish.
“Why were you hiding and where is your travel companion?” greeted one.
“I wasn’t hiding—I tripped—and I haven’t a need for a travel companion.” Gish responded smugly.
“We seen two of you walking,” the second Mysra added.
“You’re mistaken. See, I was only carrying this roll and bag. You only saw these at my side—which is why I tripped.” Gish held up his rolled mat and the long sack in one arm. These, when held together, were about the length of Marin. “My horse snapped its legs and had to be slaughtered . . .”
Marin was terrified. Why was Gish trying to hide him from the other Mysra? Shouldn’t they all get along with each other? He wondered if this would be a good time for him to escape—but if Gish was hiding him, he might be valuable and they’d all chase him down. He weighed his options. There were three Mysra—two on horseback and Gish. They were in an endless sea of yellow grass, the Yellow Vast, Gish had called it. There was nowhere to hide
.
After a few long seconds, he decided against escape—at least for now. Marin felt around for a possible weapon. He couldn’t move much, for fear of disturbing the tall grass.
“I’m traveling back to Odana,” Gish continued.
Marin’s ears perked at that. Odana!
“Yes, but where have you come from?” the second rider demanded for clarificaton; annoyance set in his tone.
Gish stood silent for a moment.
While Gish hesitated, the first rider curiously started off toward Marin’s hiding spot, closing in on the small space of grass that had a visible hole in it. Marin could hear his horse breathing, and the hoof beats on the padded grassy ground growing near.
Droplets of sweat gathered on Marin’s brow, and a fly landed on his neck and was tickling him with tiny legs. Despite the fevered urge to swat the fly and wipe his brow, he remained still. Breathing. Slowly. His hand was still nervously riffling deep inside the Mysra bag that lay at his side—his fingers were growing numb.
Gish strained for an answer, then suddenly, with a trillium-induced burst of speed, he unexpectedly grabbed the rider near him by his tunic. With raw force, he pulled him down from his saddle, and his boulder-like body pounded into the ground.
Gish turned and ran from him toward Marin, toward the other rider, who grabbed for a hatchet fastened at his side. Gish quickly flashed to grab him with his left hand, just as he had with the first rider. This time, Gish produced his large knife and stabbed the rider in the side with a quick, smooth thrust. The Myrsa roared before slumping to fall off his horse.
Marin gasped aloud.
The first rider—now on foot—ran toward Gish from behind, his face bloodied from his landing. He grabbed Gish’s massive shoulder and delivered a hook-blow to his face. His enormous knuckles landed squarely on Gish’s mouth and nose. Gish, eyes wide, slightly stumbled at the impact, and black blood gushed down his ash-gray chin. Then he took another blow, this one to the gut. Gish licked the blood and grinned wide at the fight-ready rider, his teeth painted gray in dark blood. The rider, proud of his punch, smiled with delight right back at Gish.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 5
