Prelude (The Songs of Aarda Book 1)

by K Schultz

  “Yes, it’s possible, but why did they leave Baradon? Never mind, I will ask him if I see him again and survive the meeting.”

  “Survive seein’ your pa? Are you sayin’ your own pa wants to kill you, lad?” Isil’s face creased, and one corner of her lips raised and parted.

  “Father may not want to, but I believe the Code requires it—”

  “What kinda nonsense is this?”

  Rehaak smiled. “Now who is interrupting every sentence, Isil?” he chided.

  Isil glared at him. “Sorry, go on, laddy.”

  “I am sorry too, Isil, I can’t tell my story in a straight line, so I would make a terrible bard. It’s fine if you ask questions when you don’t understand, isn’t it, Rehaak?” he said. Laakea mimicked Isil’s glare at Rehaak and continued. “You told me all knowledge begins with questions.”

  Rehaak looked at the floor in mock humility and said, “I consider myself duly chastened.”

  “My parents were weapons masters, both in their use and in their creation. Pa became a war leader and led our army during the conflict that drove the Abrhaani out of Baradon. From the time I was old enough to hold a small wooden sword, he trained me to fight. He said it was needful I become an accomplished warrior if I was his true son and a true Eniila. I trained with sword, ax, spear, and bow every day.

  “Many days, I performed drills with one hand strapped to my waist. The next day Pa bound the opposite arm and made me repeat the drills until I fought well with either hand.

  “Father often said, ‘It is important to train with both hands because you might lose a hand or an arm in battle. The limb might grow back someday, but not soon enough to save your life.’”

  “Eniila limbs grow back?” Rehaak’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw dropped.

  “Hush now, Rehaak, you can discuss that later. Let the lad talk.”

  “I had time for stories in the evenings. I also helped my mother in the gardens, and I loved the sound of her singing. Ma had the most beautiful voice.”

  Laakea fell silent when tears formed at Shelhera’s memory. He swallowed hard and kept the tears from overflowing, and although his voice cracked, he mastered his emotions and began again. “Ma died a year ago of a wasting illness.

  After she took sick and died, Pa changed. He grew harder than the steel he forged. Each day he became more unreasonable and impossible to please. One night, we got into a huge ruckus. I dishonored him, and I cursed him to his face.” Laakea stopped short. He assumed his logic was plain.

  Isil rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. When Laakea didn’t respond, she looked at Rehaak for an explanation. Rehaak shrugged and pointed his chin in Laakea’s direction, as if to say, “Ask him.”

  “Parents and young’uns been scrappin’ as long as there’s been families, I reckon. Then they forgets about it and goes on livin’. That’s what families does.”

  “Not Eniila families, if the child is male and old enough to be accountable for his actions. Not if the child curses the parent. You don’t understand, Isil.”

  “You be dead right about that, young’un. How about you explain it to me?”

  “Honor is everything to the Eniila, and once an Eniila boy becomes a man, he must obey the Warrior Code. He is accountable for every word and action, which means if he causes insult, injury, or commits other crimes, he must face trial.”

  “I am followin’ you so far, lad. We has laws, and magistrates what decides the guilt and punishment of criminals too. We ain’t barbarians.”

  Rehaak struggled to hold his tongue while he listened to their exchange, but he let the boy finish his story without interference. Rehaak had the same confusion when he learned about Eniila culture. He too, felt the Eniila had barbaric customs.

  “Not a magistrate or a court, Isil. Trial by combat. Injury or insult requires payment of a Blood Debt. The person who suffers the offense challenges the wrongdoer, and the outcome of their duel determines wrong and right. The survivor is innocent in the eyes of the law, and the guilty person pays the Blood Debt with his life.”

  “That’s cruel! How can that be justice? The strongest would always take from the weakest.”

  “You have good reasons to think so. Father often said, ‘Though the gods decide the outcome of the combat, they favor the well trained and better armed.’ It’s why he said it was so vital for me to fight well. There are several cities of refuge for those who can’t or won’t fight.”

  Rehaak leaned forward in his chair. “The Eniila have ways to curb excesses too, Isil. For example, the winner must take on the loser’s obligations to family or creditors. I don’t pretend to understand it either, but let him continue.”

  “Fine, but I still think it’s a stupid arrangement,” she harrumphed. “Finish your story.”

  “Oh yes, and I forgot about hired avengers too,” said Laakea.

  “You never told me about them, or did you?” asked Rehaak. “Sorry, never mind, continue your story. We can talk about them later too.”

  “I not only insulted my father, but I also cursed him,” Laakea spoke slowly as if he talked to a small child. “Because of my disrespect to him, he had the right to demand trial by combat according to the Code. I knew I could never defeat him. The gods wouldn’t allow me to win because he is a better fighter and because of my guilt.

  I fled like a coward, ran from my fate and justice. When I ran away, I became both a coward and a fugitive. I can live in a city of refuge if I reach one. Since those cities lie in Baradon, Pa can attack me anywhere along the way to Baradon, or he might hire an avenger to do it for him.”

  “Seems to me that runnin’ away be more an act o’ common sense than cowardice, to my way o’ thinkin’. Why didn’t he extend k’harsa to you?”

  Laakea ignored her interruption. He didn’t want to get sidetracked into Rehaak’s murky definition of k’harsa again, so he continued. “As things stand now, the Code allows any Eniila designated by my father as his avenger to challenge and kill me on sight with no penalty. If I find my way to a city of refuge, I can never leave it, unless I become a member of the Brotherhood.”

  Laakea looked to Rehaak for help with the explanation, since he thought Isil didn’t understand.

  “Your explanation is fine, lad. Isil understands what you told her, but she does not believe civilized people should settle their differences that way.”

  Isil’s words boiled out like water in a pot left on the fire. “Blamed right! Lot o’ nonsense! Parents killin’ their children, after the grief o’ bearin’ ‘em and raisin’ ‘em. That’s idiotic!” She sent an exasperated look at Laakea, pounded the table with her fist, and then fell silent.

  “Well, that’s Eniila justice,” Laakea replied. “If I see my father, the Code requires him to test me on the field of honor. Only the strongest are fit to live.”

  Isil asked Laakea, “And where’s your Pa now?”.

  “I don’t know."

  “So, he could come bustin’ in and start hackin’ at you any moment?”

  “It is true, Isil,” Rehaak answered. “I believe he has gone off somewhere, but where and why remains a mystery. I know how Laakea handles himself in a battle. Although he is still young, he is lethal. But Aelfric is a much more seasoned fighter than Laakea. Based on what he’s told me, even together, we could never defeat a warrior like Aelfric.”

  “Then why are we still hangin’ ‘round here like the stink on shit?”

  “Because I want to complete the weapons I need to protect Rehaak’s backside from the assassins.”

  “Well, why are we sittin’ around tellin’ yarns then? Get to work, both o’ you!”

  “That’s the problem, Isil. The metal is different. I can’t forge it like regular steel.”

  “Well, use regular steel then and stop messin’ around!”

  “I would if I had enough steel,” Laakea growled.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Exactly,” Rehaak said. “But Laakea may gain more from the riddle of thi
s stuff than just better weapons, or it may be an exercise in character building for us both. Look how we have changed.” He flexed his arm and pointed to his stringy bicep.

  “Yup, I noticed that right off.” Isil leered at the men. “I likes my men all hot and sweaty with bulging muscles.”

  Laakea looked at his hands and bit his lower lip. “I feel compelled to master the secret of this metal, and its mastery may be important for our survival.”

  Isil appeared thoughtful, then said, “Maybe you been tryin’ to use the wrong methods on this stuff, Laakea. I mean, if it ain’t steel, stop tryin’ to work it like steel.”

  Shipwreck

  Aelfric awoke to the screech of seabirds and smell of brisk salt air laced with fishy seaweed. Rocks that escaped his notice when he bedded down last night left dimpled bruises on his back. The morning sun lingered below the horizon and painted the sky and clouds yellow and pink. The fire had burned out, and he arose cold, stiff, and sore.

  In a tenday of work, Aelfric had carved new oars and dragged the boat to a spot below the tide line. The tide rose overnight, and the dingy pitched and bobbed as if eager to begin the journey. Aelfric stared across the inlet to where the forest gave way to the sandy shore. That headland was his goal today, and if memory served; the promontory marked the halfway point to the Stone Song River, where he could replenish his water supply tomorrow. Once past the estuary, he faced days of rowing along the forested rocky beaches before he reached the port of Aeron Suul.

  “A rather inauspicious start,” Aelfric grumbled as he rolled his blankets into a tight roll around his weapons and stuffed the bundle into a waterproof oilskin duffel. He waded into the waist-high water and threw the duffel bag aboard. By the time he added the packsack, heavy with gold and silver, to the pile of supplies and gear in the stern and lashed everything in place, the water had receded to his thighs. Aelfric pulled himself over the side and hauled up the anchor. He had skipped breakfast, hoping to avoid seasickness.

  With the ebb tide and a steady effort on the oars, Aelfric made progress until midday. At midday, the current fought his efforts, and Aelfric’s pace slowed to a crawl. The seabirds screeched and glided through the air while he clawed his way forward across the swells. Their screams mocked and taunted him. They swooped and coasted on the gentle breeze while he sweated and strained at the oars.

  Aelfric had planned to hug the coastline all the way to Aeron Suul. I pray this weather holds. I best take advantage of the calm water and shorten the distance. The less time I spend in this boat, the happier I’ll be, so I choose swiftness in the depths over safety near the shore. He renewed his grip on the oars and cut across the open water toward the headland to his right.

  Near the beach, the boat bobbed like a fighter avoiding punches. Once Aelfric got farther from shore, the skiff gently rose and fell, and his guts calmed. Aelfric’s arms ached, sweat trickled down his back, and drenched his tunic despite the gentle breeze ruffling the water. Hunger sapped his strength, and his leaden arms and shoulders screamed from the unaccustomed effort. He could swing a hammer all day in the forge and not tire, but rowing used different muscles, and his back ached from the effort. By late afternoon, he reached the peninsula, grounded his boat, and splashed ashore.

  Aelfric climbed up the beach and ate his first meal since setting out that morning. He ate bread and jerked meat with water. Once he finished, he stowed his food away, lay back, and allowed the sun-warmed black sand to ease his backache while seabirds swooped and hovered low overhead. Do they want the food in my pack? Or do they suspect I am carrion to peck and devour?

  A few birds, bolder than the others, landed on the sand nearby and waddled toward him. Aelfric turned his head and watched them approach. When they got close, he sat up and shouted, “I’m not dead yet.” At the sound of Aelfric’s voice, they took flight, screeching and squawking in alarm as their wings beat the air. While the sun sank toward the forested hills of Khel Braah, Aelfric napped, and the birds kept a respectful distance.

  As the sun neared the horizon, Aelfric scrounged firewood and lit a fire to fend off the cold, damp air. When he had eaten his second meal of the day, he fell asleep to the sound of the waves.

  .

  During the night, the tide had risen again and lifted the boat off the rocks where Aelfric had beached it the previous evening. The thump of the boat’s hull on the stones woke Aelfric, and he sat erect and squinted at the colors brightening the eastern sky. The little skiff bobbed in the water and tugged at the anchor rope, beckoning Aelfric to resume his journey. He groaned, resigned to another tedious day on the heaving water. He threw his food and gear back into the boat, pulled in the anchor rope, and set off with the ebbing tide. By nightfall, he reached the mouth of the stream he remembered from the trip sixteen years ago.

  Aelfric lit a fire and made camp for the night on the sandy riverbank. The sky above him blazed with stars and reminded him of Shelhera’s cremation. The sparks from her funeral pyre had risen into the night sky and joined those faint lights overhead. He liked to think she watched over him from among the stars, but the thought did little to fill the ache and emptiness in his heart. She rarely visited him in his dreams anymore. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes and dribbled into his ears. He waited for sleep to block the memories and drifted into fitful slumber.

  When morning came, the wind had increased, and his little boat bucked and heaved on the waves splashing against the shore. The tide was high, and the northwest wind raced down the coastline southward. Aelfric loaded all the supplies back into the boat and pulled up the anchor.

  The wind at his back and the current from the ebb tide pushed him along. Aelfric made rapid progress, but his insides heaved with every wave. His breakfast rolled and shifted in his gut and threatened to spill overboard. As the day progressed, the wind increased. The shoreline bent eastward, but the wind drove him south and away from the beach. Aelfric lost sight of the shore whenever his small craft dropped into the troughs between swells. Panic gripped him. He hauled on the oars to regain shallower water, but he made little headway against the wind and current.

  Around noon, Aelfric, exhausted and soaked from the spray, had almost given up hope and resigned himself to death in the bottomless depths. The sun reached its zenith, the wind shifted, and the tide changed and pushed him shoreward again. At first, he thought he only imagined it, but after an hour, the shoreline seemed closer. Each time his boat crested a swell, he saw individual trees instead of a green blur.

  As he got closer to land, the swells broke, and breakers foamed against the scattered boulders marking the boundary between sea and land. Aelfric fought to keep the prow pointed at the shore. The waves pushed him shore-ward and broke over the stern of the boat. Water splashed inside the vessel, soaking all his gear, but he was still far from shore. Aelfric worked hard on the oars to keep the skiff headed in the right direction. He had no time for nausea, fear, or bailing water. A massive wave rose like a hammer and threatened to drive him into the ocean bottom like a nail in a coffin.

  Aelfric rowed madly to stay ahead of the crest. The skiff rose on the wave, which hurled it forward. It careened down the wave’s slope and sped down the mountain of water toward safety, but before it reached the beach, the breaker crashed over the stern and filled the boat with water.

  Laakea’s Song

  If it’s not steel... Isil is right! Laakea shot out of his seat as if jabbed in the backside by red-hot metal from the forge. “Why didn’t I think of it? I’m an idiot!”

  “What caused this incredible revelation?” Rehaak asked as he lit the fire in the hearth to fend off the evening chill. “What do you mean? Be more specific.”

  “Isil’s right, Rehaak; I’ve done this wrong. I just remembered a song my father sang at the forge. Pa learned the song from his father, a work-song passed along from father to son.

  “Ehlbringa, they called it in the song. Stronger than steel, light as feathers, the color of old sea ice. Pa had never se
en it, but his grandfather claimed our family worked it in ancient times, before the Sundering. Our ancient ancestors were the greatest smiths and warriors who ever lived.”

  “And I bet they were fifteen feet tall, had eyes like molten lava, and ate mithun whole for breakfast,” Rehaak joked.

  “You’d figure a man chasin’ a lost book across the entire world for most o’ his life would accept other people’s legends, wouldn’t you, lad?” Laakea and Isil both glared at Rehaak.

  Rehaak’s smirk faded, and he fell silent.

  “The manuscripts contained nothing about ehlbringa.”

  “That don’t mean it ain’t there. What was important to Laakea’s people mightn’t have been important to ours. Our great scholars should’a been more thorough in what they included in their books. You said it yourself—we lost heaps o’ learnin’ since the ol’ days. I be thinkin’ that maybe they weren’t as thorough as they shoulda been, or you shoulda been more careful in your research. You ain’t found the Aetheriad yet despite all your searchin’, has you, Mr. Scholar, but that don’t mean it ain’t real.”

  “No, I have not seen every document ever written. I did not know ehlbringa existed, so I never researched it. Laakea sometimes uses words I don’t understand, right, Laakea?”

  “Uhm...I guess so. I wasn’t listening to you.”

  “Probably the wisest choice in this case, young’un,” Isil needled.

  “I am trying to remember the words to the song, the only song my father ever taught me, called ‘The Song of the Smith.’ It’s strange, my father seldom sang. Mother sang often, but Father didn’t, except for this one song and then only while he worked. I’m convinced it tells me how to work the metal of the blades if I can understand it.”