Marin could see the rider fumbling for something. Unable to lie still any longer, he sprang up by reflex just as the rider produced a small folding knife. In a flash, the rider jabbed this into Gish’s thick left thigh while he was still bent from the gut-punch.
Marin didn’t know why, but in this very second, he leapt to tackle the rider with all his strength and agility. Gish yelled in pain at the stab, and Marin and the rider both tumbled hard to Gish’s left side, Marin’s small legs flying into the air. Turning toward the rider, Gish quickly threw Marin like a child’s doll further off to the side and grabbed the rider by his tunic. Glaring into the other Mysra’s eyes, Gish jolted upwards, stabbing the rider deep in his chest. The knife drove in so deeply that it stopped only when the grip was flush with the victim’s chest. Satisfied, he dropped the rider’s body to the ground.
Dying, the rider rasped and with a bloodied smile said, “He’ll never want you now, Gish . . . even . . . with the captured WynSprign sl—” A gurgle emitted from his throat where the words had ended. His eyes stared sightless at the sky.
Gish grunted and with strength pulled his large bloodied knife out from the mound of the rider’s chest, jolting back slightly at the effort. Dark, thick blood gushed from the Mysra’s gaping chest wound. The buzz of trillium still tingled in Gish’s veins.
Marin was stunned. In trying to stand, he stumbled a little, but once he gained bearings, he bent over and dusted off his thighs. He and Gish both panted, their hearts racing. Gish, still bent over, wiped at his gushing nose as thick swaths of blood drained to the ground below him. Marin suddenly felt hot and dizzy. Without warning, he collapsed onto all fours and vomited the coveted rabbit meat into the yellow grass. His black hair hung wild about his bent head, and Marin’s thin limbs shook with his heaves.
Gish’s face softened and he suddenly belted a laugh at Marin’s unexpected response to this confrontation. His big toothy grin was still stained gray with blood.
Hearing his hearty laugh, Marin, in between heaves, glared at Gish accusingly, and then, seeing his bloodied grin, felt the urge again. He quickly bolted away to resume his loud retching.
Gish made a louder robust laugh. Though horrific, especially coming from his bloody mouth, his laugh was booming and enjoyable as he found some hilarity at Marin’s expense. It is as if the boy has never seen a knife fight.
Of course, Marin hadn’t seen a fight like that, nor had he seen death.
Once Marin had finished vomiting, Gish offered him water no longer cool, but nonetheless most welcome to his acid-burned throat.
Gish collapsed to sit on the yellow grass. His thigh was throbbing and continued to ooze thick blood. Laboring with all the load he carried would be more of a challenge and would extend their travel time. Gish was examining the wound when suddenly they heard a horse whinny. The smile returned to Gish’s hardened face as he remembered—Yes!
“We have horses!” he exclaimed joyfully. The stretch of his grin displayed the range of his large pointed teeth.
Gish was confident that Marin wouldn’t try to escape, even on horseback—where would he go? They were in the middle of nowhere and the boy would have no way of knowing what direction to take. And, in this blistering heat and with other potential threats . . . no way would he try to escape. It was almost laughable. Gish smiled easily.
Marin stood, but then crouched, creeping closely to the horse as if he were afraid it might attack him. Gish grinned at the youth’s inexperience, and, forgetting about his injury, slapped his large hands down on his thighs, then loosed a string of colorful curse words at his self-inflicted pain.
The horses remained standing as they grazed on the nourishing yellow grass. They were saddled and ready to ride and ignored Marin’s close proximity.
Gish grunted as he rose to stand again. “Marin, when you’re done over there . . .”—Marin had started to cautiously pet a horse— “just get over here. We are going to ride these. I’ll show you how.”
Marin stood straight. He dusted his hands and knees off and wiped his mouth with his forearm. He looked worse than he ever had before, but somehow, oddly, his spirit felt great. He slowly approached Gish, who was now walking toward the brown horse, then slowly stroked its face and began whispering to it.
It was astonishing. Gish can be peaceful . . . with horses at least, Marin thought to himself. He glanced down at Gish’s leg. He, which was still bleeding profusely.
“You okay?” Marin asked, staring at his leg.
“Yeah,” Gish answered in his gruff manner, still focused on the horse. He could feel his rage seeping away at every downward stroke of his hand against the horse’s velvet face.
After a moment, Gish was ready. “Let’s get you trained to ride a horse and then we can ride out. We have days of travel ahead. We’ll stop at a river on the way and rest there for a night.” He squinted at Marin.
Marin hesitated. It was the most that Gish had yet said, and his voice was almost certainly more pleasant.
Gish assured him, “They’re harmless animals. This one”—he stroked the dark chocolate snout close to his shoulder— “this one is LaCriox.” He shot a glance to the tan one nearby, still nibbling at the grass. “That one there is Aspirium.” He approached Marin. “I’ll teach you all the basics . . . just like I trained them”—he pointed to the lifeless riders on the bloodied ground. Grasses hissed in the breeze.
Gish trained them. He didn’t like them, but he still trained them. The truth was, he didn’t like anyone who served his father. They were all the same: power-hungry, untrustworthy, and cruel. All of them, content to create affliction in others for personal gain. Gish wanted to avoid any other encounters, as he didn’t know what horrors other Mysra would inflict on the boy. He wasn’t eager to return home with an innocent. This, bringing a WynSprign home, it hadn’t been a part of the plan, but perhaps given his status he could keep the boy from any major harm.
Marin looked back up at him. He didn’t find total comfort in Gish’s response. He didn’t find comfort in any of it.
✽✽✽
Never before these days would Marin have expected to see a horse, let alone ride one! Yet that afternoon Gish helped Marin learn how to mount the horse and use basic commands. The horses ran under Gish’s order. He was a master. Marin was in awe at the beauty and grace Gish displayed while working with the beasts. His blood-soaked leg was almost forgotten in magnificence as he worked in tune with the peaceful creatures. It was hard to believe this was the same Mysra that had stolen Marin and killed two of his own kind. Who in the fires was he?!
Gish made Marin learn how to pull himself up, mounting the horse, how to sit, how to hold the reigns, and how to give the basic commands. He made Marin learn because he didn’t want to have to share a mount and cause undo physical stress for the animal. He himself was quite a load for any horse to burdon. He also preferred his own space.
Soon it seemed, Marin was able to move the horse freely under his own will. Gish was silently satisfied of his work.
Marin was feeling a bit proud of himself—confident, even. He had considered taking a horse and running off with it to escape. But that thought quickly fizzled. He had barely learned how to track in the Great Mist. He had no idea which way to head in these yellow grasses—it seemed they were in the middle of nowhere. Their steps that would have been easy to track in the forest had already long disappeared in waves of swaying golden grass and only an expert could determine the direction from them. He could never find his way back home in enough time to elude his captor. Somewhat defeated, he decided that he would continue to ride along with Gish . . . at least for now.
They strolled a bit on horseback for practice before Gish decided to have them pack up and actually leave. They didn’t have much to carry, thanks to the horses. Gish pilfered the contents of the dead Mysra horsemen’s pockets and bags and took several items including a canteen, so now Marin could have one of his own. Other items included a piece of meat jerky, a knife, and th
e hatchet of the dead rider—of course, Gish took this item. The meat jerky wasn’t meant to last long. The riders were likely going to hunt for more food, given what little they had.
The two relaxed in the grassy spot to allow Gish time to gain strength. Since they were also unable to hunt, for Gish’s obvious fear of being caught by other patrolling Mysra, they’d have to eat the sparse food available and go hungry otherwise. With a rumbling gut, Gish fumbled ineffectively through the satchel.
Is Gish a fugitive himself? Marin’s thoughts spun as he watched his abductor.
“Unless . . .” started Marin, almost reading the Mysra’s thoughts. His mind flicked to the healthy grass shoots that surrounded them. When hungry, the WynSprigns could always dig for grubs in the small grassy spots of the Great Mist. This was a giant, endless grassy spot. Without explanation, Marin started to dig around him, gently uprooting the thick mats of yellow grass.
Gish looked at him with a confused expression—a stark contrast to the stony demeanor he usually displayed.
Marin looked up to meet his gaze and said simply, “Grubs.”
“Grubs?” asked Gish.
“Yeah, you know, foraging for grubs.”
Gish had never actually eaten a grub, nor had he ever foraged—this was not common for the Mysra to do, for they were talented natural hunters.
“What about grubs?” Gish asked.
Marin was puzzled. “Don’t you eat grubs? You know, when food is low?”
“No. I never ate grubs,” he answered in visible disgust.
Marin explained the WynSprign practice and resumed digging. After a few moments he squealed, “Success!” He produced a few plump and wriggling peach-colored grubs with black faces and small pincers.
Gish was repulsed. “Baaah! You eat those?”
“Well, sure. Really, they’re not so bad if you swallow them whole.” Marin held his hand out quickly to Gish. The grubs jiggled with the friendly offer.
Gish made a twisted face. This fierce Mysra, with a body that looked to be made of carved stone, was afraid to try a tiny grub. Marin thought this was hilarious but didn’t dare laugh, and he worked to maintain just an amused face.
“Okay, look—watch me now,” Marin said. He opened his mouth wide, leaned his head back slightly, and popped a grub in. He then swallowed. The grub felt fat and bouncy as it squished against the back of his throat before it went down. He grinned. “See? Now I won’t be quite as hungry. Okay, your turn.”
Gish grunted and took a grub from Marin’s opened hand. He opened his mouth wide and tossed the grub in. He proceeded to swallow it whole while squinting one eye tightly. He then took a moment, remaining expressionless. It was hard to tell if he approved or not. Then, he thought he’d try the last one that Marin had foraged for. He reached forward and took it.
It wasn’t long before they had a grub feast. It wasn’t the best—they were tasteless, but the grubs satisfied their hunger. In fact, with the carrots, the small bits of jerky, and the many grubs, the hunger that had stabbed at them both was now satisfied.
Marin, after eating, turned over onto his belly and started replanting the uprooted grass stalks.
“What are you doing that for?” Gish asked, his voice graveled and low.
“Well, I’d hate for this small circle we uprooted to die. I’d like more grubs to grow here in this very spot in the future. The only way to make sure that happens is to return the grassy stalk roots to their original condition . . . and this is easy to do, of course.”
Gish grunted with a thoughtful nod.
It wasn’t long after their feast that they mounted. Gish grimaced with pain but said nothing about his injured thigh. He managed to sit properly on top of his horse and was able to avoid telling Marin of his true intent.
Chapter Ten
Trillium
Gish and Marin journeyed a few days. Over time, Marin hadn’t noticed the land had slowly inclined and was now a plateau, still covered with the annoying yellow grass. Marin felt an ache that slowly began to crawl up through his thighs and bottom. Saddle sore. It seemed the more they journeyed, the more the pain barked. Knowing Gish would not welcome comment; Marin remained tight-lipped about this detail and secretly hoped for a rest soon.
They championed their way to the top, and it was there, at the edge of their yellow world, they could see the layout. It was there, on the shelf, that the majesty of Odana finally revealed herself. A swirl of breeze lifted his spirits and Marin’s heart pumped a response.
"Odana," Gish announced, pointing toward a line of miniscule light purple mountains in the distance. They were only just visible against the expansive horizon. Though the journey had been lengthy already, Gish clearly wasn’t happy about having reached this point. He didn’t show any sign of joy at the gorgeous sight of the mountains sleeping in the distance, the color, the beauty, the teaming life before them.
Marin, however, sat on LaCriox awestruck at the colorful landscape that lay in front of him. He took in the expanse, the up-swelling air that scented of something . . . different. Different from the smell of hot grass. A blue ribbon in the middle distance—a rushing river—was likely the one Gish had mentioned previously. Then, after the river was a dark blanket of forest that covered the foothills before giving way to the purple veiled mountains whispering in the distance far beyond—and their secret Lanico had taught him: The Castle of Odana.
It was astounding that while Marin had never been here before, he could feel the land pulling him into an invisible embrace. He knew in his soul that this was where he was meant to be. He was a part of this land. The blood that coursed through his veins was once nourished through his mother from the earth here―the vegetation, the water, and the trillium-laced air. He could never leave it again. There were no words that could have allowed Marin to explain it exactly, but this was his land. His mind cast back to Lanico’s stories as he felt them ever coming true.
Marin studied himself and realized in that moment that this was the yearning; this was what his soul had been pleading for all this time, all these years since childhood. For the first time, he felt as if he were in the exact place, he needed to be . . . with a sense of purpose. There, on that edge overlooking the world beyond, Marin felt his spirit soar.
They began their steep descent down the switchback terrain. The tall yellow grass that he had become accustomed to, thinned in the distance and gave way to spots of brush, small trees, and other greenery. Marin could see that beyond the river and rolling hills the land appeared greener, but the forest and mountains slowly disappeared from view as they reached the plain below. The greenery, though, this was a welcome change. Marin longed for the color and the comfort of trees again.
Gish made a clicking sound with his tongue and encouraged Aspirium onward. Marin's chocolate mare, LaCriox, followed closely behind.
It didn't seem long before they arrived at the river - the same one that had appeared as a mere ribbon before. They dismounted, tying the horses to small trees near enough to the edge that the horses were able to walk on the wet pebbles and freely drink the clear-flowing water.
Gish apparently decided it was all right to relax a little, for the horses' sake. A few sparse trees and bushes grew near the riverside, and Marin concluded they would be helpful to provide them cover while letting them see possible dangers.
It was somewhat embarrassing to Marin that the Mysra had to help him off the horse. Gish had seemed a bit friendlier since Marin had helped him with the Mysra attack-or at least, attempted to help. He took out his weathered canteen and the new one and filled them with the fresh, cool river water as Marin hobbled across the ground, stretching his aching muscles and rubbing his backside. Then they both sat in silence on rocks, listening to the nearby rush of the current.
Feeling only slightly more comfortable with Gish, trusting that he might not kill him, Marin bravely decided to ask questions. He straightened, "Gish—what's Odana like?"
Gish took a drink from the canteen, car
eful of his swollen lips. "Odana has many mountains" —Gish gave a wet sigh— "and the mountains are filled with trillium."
It was obvious to Marin that mountains were not all that the Odana had. From the height of the plateau, Marin had clearly seen forests and hills―the land was vast and lovely, with places that he could perhaps run to and hide in under the cover of night. Gish mentioned “trillium,” a word that he had heard before. "What's trillium?"
"Hasn't anyone told you about trillium?" Gish sat up with a look of disbelief.
Marin shook his head slowly in confusion. "Ah . . . no.”
Gish sighed in annoyance, and Marin felt like a small child he had to tend to, had to teach.
"Well," Marin continued, "no one ever told you about foraging for grubs." He gave a weak smile—he had been bold just then.
The Mysra didn’t seem to mind, though. Gish took another big swig of water. “Well,” he breathed, “trillium is only the best fighting aid that we Mysra have. And those purple mountains”—he jerked his chin toward the horizon, toward the mountains that were now invisible from this lower elevation. “They’re filled with it. It’s what gives them that purple shade.” He took another swig. "We've been mining the trillium reserves in those mountains since after the Great Divide—the seizure of the castle."
Marin knew that, too, about the seizure—he wasn’t that dim. He thought back to the small pouch of powder that Gish had. "What's trillium do?" he asked slowly, trying to read his captor. The Mysra shifted to make himself comfortable.
Chapter Eleven
Task of the conditionally loved
"When we Mysra take trillium powder,” Gish said, wondering what the already boy knew, “it gives us incredible strength and speed." He paused. "It gives us the ability to be effective warriors. We always use it in battle." We always use it . . . Always. Gish chose to leave out their reliance on the substance. The way his father punished the Mysra by withholding it . . . the contemptuous effects of this discipline.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 6
