"Do the Mysra battle often?" Marin asked.
Gish was thankful the WynSprign had changed the topic. He considered the question and realized that he’d find out soon enough, as he soon would be living amongst them. "Yes, we do . . . well, not as we used to. We battle among ourselves." He smiled, thinking of past battles. He loved the surge of energy in a good fight. They all did.
"What was all the battling for?" Marin continued.
"Well . . ." Gish chose his words carefully. "WynSprigns are no longer fighting us. We claimed and took the Odana from them, so we could have access to the trillium in the mountains." He tried to smile but saw alarm in the boy’s eyes and went grim again. “Now,” he continued, “we fight mostly to prove our strength amongst ourselves.”
Gish remembered the dying words of the Mysra: "He'll never accept you now, Gish, even with the WynSprign sl—" Had the boy caught that? Did he know what they were traveling toward?
Marin looked up at him with a question: "Gish . . . Why are you taking me to Odana?"
Gish swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes at Marin, and his voice became lower, somber. "I made a promise." He shot a quick glance toward the hidden mountains, many miles off, and then back at Marin. "I need to take you back."
The boy furrowed his brow and looked down with a frown. He had a spirit about him that suggested he would not go along so meekly, especially if he knew what awaited him. If Gish just remained friendly . . .
The Mysra thought back to the events that had brought him here as he continued to wrestle with himself about his place in the Mysra order. The dying rider's words echoed in his mind. As ludicrous as is seemed, he still didn’t know what he was going to do with the boy.
Gish had been a constant disappointment to his father, the Mysra leader Grude. Since their creation under Fray Jaspia, the Mysra had been a strong brutish race unapologetic in all their conquests and as mighty as the boulders they had been formed from, black blood running in their veins. It had been Jaspia’s intention to design them in this way. As the next ranking leader of the Mysra under Grude, Gish had duties and expectations to adhere to. He had long been viewed as soft, easily bent to care for the slaves and the horses he kept. His most recent disappointment before Grude and the occasion for this task of capturing a taken WynSprign from the Great Mist, was that Gish had prevented a Mysra guard, Fuemer, from punishing a WynSprign slave. That alone made him a shame to the race.
But then, Gish committed the most disdainful act, one that should have been punishable by death.
Gish did not stop with protecting the slave but, in a blind rage, killed Fuemer. It was only because he was Grude's son that Gish was spared execution. To prove his love and loyalty to Grude, he was to retrieve information about the hidden WynSprign village. This would prove to Grude Gish’s worthiness to continue as his son and heir.
He hadn’t exactly discovered the hidden village, but he was very close to it, and he had retrieved a WynSprign. Perhaps that would be good enough.
Gish thought this over while sitting near the calm river. Something about the boy made him think of the slave he’d spared that day. He dug his feet into the gravel below his boulder as he heard again the crack of the whip and Fuemer's fury. He narrowed his eyes in thought.
The slave was one Gish knew well—she had an old wound that tore at her side and hindered her work at times. Gish purposefully looked away, ignoring her feeble work. When he looked at her, she'd slide a soft glance at him, adding a subtle grateful nod. She was a stoic one. There was something about her. Something about the strength in her expression . . .
That day the guards had brought her out from her hut. She kicked and screamed against them, her bonnet-covered head twisting and lolling as they jolted her. They were too strong, pulling her to the center post of the encampment.
They tore her tunic from her with one easy pull and she collapsed in defeat. She knelt exposed, save for the bonnet still secured to her head. Her panting visible at her expanding, visible ribcage. She knelt, waiting. Today they wouldn’t secure her to the post. No, instead the guards at her sides held her wrists. The scars on her back were long, white diagonals that ran parallel to one another, testifying to her earlier punishments. The worst scar, on her side, was a deep hole that drew a shadow in the midday sun. Gish didn’t know the origin of that particular scar, but whatever inflicted it must have been horrendous. There was the sound of a soft, hot breeze before the familiar crack!
Gish grunted out loud, just thinking of the way she had jerked upward. A jerk against the piercing sting. The skin on her bare back split instantly. The wail-like moan of her voice remained clear. Her thin, quivering arms were held firmly by two Mysra guards. He clenched his fists as he remembered Fuemer's pleasure-laden smile, now etched in his mind.
Fuemer was most pleased with his work. The new crimson line that ran diagonally matched the white ones he had placed there before. He fondled the familiar grip in his hand, curling his fingers around it. He coiled back, ready again for another strike. It would be three in total for today's disobedience—ignoring the call to work.
Before he could strike for the second time, Gish ran toward him, determined to stop the next whip. It was unbearable. Every pounding step took him nearer. He heard his voice as he shouted, "Fuemer! Stop!”
Fuemer paused, his eye twitching. Waiting . . .
Gish closed in, panting, “Stop. Stop punishing the slaves in this way—it’s not going to cause them to work harder, just slower . . . from pain."
Fuemer’s flush of pleasure turned to rage with every second that Gish spoke, and Gish could see contempt on Fuermer’s face. He read the message. Had heard it before: You weak son of Grude. The only thing that makes you remotely significant is your place as Grude’s son. That. Is. All.
Fuemer’s fist tightened around the grip and the leather groaned, and he sneered at Gish.
"We need to get more production from them—not pain," Gish added quickly, his breathing ragged. “We’ll get more out of them without . . . this”—he gestured between the slave and the whip.
Fuemer glowered at Gish, and Gish saw his whip hand twitch—He’d love nothing more than to whip me too.
Gish looked around to see other Mysra guards and a few slaves watching this odd, dishonoring confrontation.
Then Fuemer tilted his head back to swallow a pouch of trillium, and a growl crawled from his throat: "It would do you well to keep to yourself and pay this no mind. Just because you're Grude's son, you think you can order me around.” He swallowed the grit down and tossed his pouch to the ground. “There is no room here for weakness, Gish, nor is there room for belittling me in this moment of discipline." As he spoke, all could see the trillium dance in him, surging. His flush of pleasure from the whipping had been fully replaced by anger.
The bloodthirsty crowd were writhing in anticipation to see how Fuemer was going to teach this spoiled brat, son of their leader, a lesson. Nobody liked the interruption of a painful punishment of a slave but a Mysra scuffle—that was even better.
Fuemer pushed up his sleeves to settle the score.
Gish read him.
They locked eyes.
There was a pause and Gish stood silently. His fingers twitched at his sides. He felt years of his own anger bubbling inside, convulsing, twisting, and boiling. This gruesome guard, his judgment—everyone's judgment—his damned wicked father. Their twisted, sick punishments for minor disobedience—even from a wounded slave. His own father was the overseer of all of this cruelty.
Gish was disgusted. Appalled at this ugliness.
Even now―in the stillness, sitting near the river, near the WynSprign that reminded him of that poor slave—Gish recalled his fury.
Gish recalled the wild look, the flash in Fuemer's eyes when he suddenly drove his knife into his chest—and ended him.
News of Gish's "outburst" reached his father when Nizen, the second-in-command under Fuemer at the WynSprign encampment, hurried off, delighted to bear
the news that would unleash Grude’s fury. Grude, mortified at his son's actions, demanded Gish's presence in the throne room immediately.
There was no fight, no brawl. If they’d had a traditional Mysra grappling, one that would satisfy the bloodlust of all gathered, and if Gish had triumphed through his own strength, Grude could have taken some satisfaction in that, brushing aside the disrespect of challenging Fuemer’s administration of Grude’s rule. But Gish had simply stabbed him.
It was not a good image for Gish, nor for Grude. It placed Grude in a precarious position.
As Gish made his way, under guard, to his father’s place in the old WynSprign castle, he knew what the audience would be like. The old Mysra leader sat on a throne intended for legendary WynSprign rulers who had ruled there over the WynSprign for many generations. Now Grude sat there, not with dignity, but in decadence. In his immense love of trillium and wine, Grude had a small table beside him with a decanter of his private selection of yellowberry wine, taken from the west. Next to it sat a covered silver bowl of trillium. The glittery purple surface of the trillium had the letter "G" pressed into its center, at every daily replenishment.
Once in the throne room Gish had noticed Neen in attendance, the one who served as Grude's assistant and advisor at times and had no doubt been whispering ideas into Grude’s head about what to do with Gish. He stood beside the throne on the dais steps, waiting on Grude like an opportunistic spider. He longed to be Grude's favorite and had been jealous of Gish for being Grude's actual son.
As Gish slowly approached his father, he held a downward gaze and made a small, humble bow.
Grude scowled and inhaled sharply. He wasted no time telling Gish exactly what was in his mind about this atrocious behavior. His thin gray lips pulled back before he hissed, "You are supposed to be next in line to lead the Mysra!" He leaned forward, clutching the armrests of the throne. "We don't apologize to the mountains for taking the trillium—we took it because they stood silent! We don't apologize to the WynSprign—they lost at the battle! It's our time to rule this damn kingdom and I cannot rely on you, Gish! All these years I’ve been trying to groom you . . . I—I cannot . . .!" His shouts reverberated in the expanse of the throne room, and he did not finish his sentence.
Grude sat uncomfortably on the throne, shifting his weight in tense thought, then relaxed a little in disappointment—Gish saw his shoulders slump. "It's almost as if you prefer to spend time with the horses than your own folk, your own people. I don't understand you, Gish. Perhaps it comes from your mother’s side . . ." Yes. Perhaps it did.
Neen, standing near the throne, had a slight smile at Grude's railing.
"How is it that I have you for a son?” Grude continued. “You've been weak. An embarrass―" Grude withheld the end of the word, pausing as a Mysra servant boy ran to approach the throne.
The boy made a small bow and handed a scroll to Grude. Gish stood silent in front of his father, waiting for more of his verbal lashing, his head bowed low. Grude fumbled to open the scroll and read, mumbling the words to himself. His mood changed at whatever news this document held. His gray body ridged with his intense focus on the scroll.
Once finished he sat thoughtfully. "Huh" rebounded on the walls.
Gish looked up questioningly; waiting for whatever came next from his father’s disapproving spirit.
Grude stared at him for a moment, then he spoke: "Gish, I have one last quest for you . . . a task. It is a chance for you to live up to your family legacy. I need you to meet with an old WynSprign ally for me, northeast, at Horse's Clearing. This is to discuss arrangements for adding to our WynSprign collection."
Gish felt a deadly hollow, grow in his gut.
Grude looked around. "Everyone!"—he barked—"out!" The few Mysra present in the throne room quickly cleared out, except for Neen. Grude clutched the armrests of the throne and inched closer to Gish, almost standing up from the throne. His neck jutted outward, and he beckoned his son closer. The white tufts of his eyebrows caught stray light from the window. Grude whispered. His warm breath puffed against Gish’s ear—"In truth, I need you to visit Horse's Clearing to get him to talk about their hidden realm. Tell me all that you find out. Tell me every word. The ally already knows who you are and may be comfortable with you. In secret, I have been baiting him deliberately over the years and, now is the time." Gish was well aware of the castle menagerie of black starling messenger pigeons.
Gish backed away, his face as solemn as stone. "Yes, Father." Then he looked down and started to turn to descend the few throne stairs.
Gish knew why he wanted to find their hidden realm: he wanted to expand the trade in slaves and the southern range had yet to be mined.
"Here!"―Grude erupted, pulling at something from under the red velvet cushion. He produced a small brown coin bag and tossed it to Gish, who caught it in one hand. "This particular WynSprign will want an award of some kind,” Grude said. “Give that to him. It should make him happy . . . for now anyway." Grude rolled his eyes.
Gish looked down, nodded, and turned to walk out. There was whispering between Grude and Neen. Gish was nearing the door when Grude shouted again.
"Gish, my son!" His voice traveled down the length of the room and Gish paused in place. "This is your last chance to prove your devotion to me, to our cause. Listen!"—spittle flew as he yelled ―"if you fail, you will no longer be given the seat of this throne upon my death!" The piercing words echoed through the chamber.
Gish had closed his eyes for a moment, and Neen patted Grude on the shoulder. Gish resumed his march.
Chapter Twelve
Emerald green
Excitement and then relief came. Lanico could view trees peeking from the side of the distant brook ahead. A slow satisfied smile slid across his face. The timing was perfect, as the sun was to set soon. The trees in the distance gave him newfound energy and he sprinted toward the brook. If he continued to follow the tracks from here, the next stop might very well be Gray Rock.
The tall grasses wicked at his legs in defiance of his every stride. As he approached the brook, he was welcomed by sparse swaying trees and the song of their rustling leaves. He sighed in pleasure. “The sound—so like home.” He had longed after the color green that had kept him partly content in the Great Mist all these years, because it was like his home. To him green signaled life, a promise of more . . . it was his favorite.
The thick yellow grasses thinned and gave way to sandy and then rocky ground, the closer he came to the water source. There he knelt to fill his nearly empty canteen. The cool water was most welcome to his parched lips and burning throat. He sat on the ground and allowed the heaviness that plagued him to melt into the boulder he leaned back on at the edge of the stream. He was nearly to Gray Rock. His bones were tired. His muscle-corded calves and thighs throbbed from the hours spent walking. He allowed himself to relax, but only briefly, though the few minutes stretched in his mind. He stirred himself and quickly worked to set up camp a slight distance away, hidden amongst the trees.
He remained mindful and stayed close to the large footprints and hooves that he had been tracking. The person he tracked seemed to know the terrain and the best way to get here—Lanico was thankful for that. While there was still light in the sky, he eagerly gathered fallen twigs and started a small fire. He then prepared for battle . . . intending to catch fish by spearing them with the Reluctant Leader, straining his awakening triceps with the unaccustomed downward thrusts. After several failed attempts, he finally speared a fish, cutting it almost in half.
It wasn't long before the fish was sizzling over the open fire. Lanico leaned back against a small tree as the cool breeze and the tree songs brought him back home. As the fish roasted, he felt himself drift into sleep. Suddenly, his eyes flew open at the sound of giggling. The sky was dark, the fire was out, and the fish was . . . well overcooked. In silence, he clenched Reluctant Leader at his thigh.
Silence. Save for the buzzing of insects.
>
The azure of his glowing eyes shot quick glances into the dark. The moon blanketed all the surroundings in its gentle glow. A side-glance caught movement near the river and, focusing, he could see three figures sitting on river rocks. Women.
Seeing his attention on them, they resumed giggling and pointed at him. He felt it odd but remembered his manners. He could very well be trespassing on their land. It had been many years since he’d traveled here after all.
"Hello!" he called, pushing himself off the ground. "I apologize if I am intruding. I was in need of water and a place for the night." He walked over to them, slowly. Reluctant Leader was still sheathed, but at the ready. He brushed his palm against the pommel for good measure. "I do hope it's okay if I stay, just this night . . ." He led with a flashed smile to feign friendliness through the caution he felt prickling up his spine.
He saw that the women were more beautiful than any he'd ever seen—except for her, of course. These women were not of WynSprign blood—he knew it instantly. He didn't know what they were, exactly, but their beauty was beyond description. Each had long, full hair in a brilliant color. One had deep purple hair like an amethyst, another sapphire blue, and the third—he gulped—of brilliant emerald. He hadn't seen emerald hair since Treva. The very sight of her, the emerald-haired one―Oh, Fires! This must be a trick! She was enchantingly beautiful.
They wore very little clothing. In fact, the diaphanous material they wore was so thin that he briefly wondered what was the purpose of wearing anything at all. They are practically naked! Lanico, maintaining his manners and respectability, focused his gaze on their star-filled eyes and translucent, dew-kissed cheeks. He continued ambling forward, saying warmly but with caution, "I mean you no harm." His smile was stiff.
The woman with purple hair started talking, her voice as smooth as silver: "Welcome to our river, most handsome stranger. We'd like you to stay for the night . . . or longer." She turned to the others, and they erupted in bashful giggles.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 7
