The Unfettered Child

by Michael C Sahd

  Many asked Nikolai questions, but he only gave them short answers. Samara still cried, her eyes squeezed shut. She couldn’t bear to look at them. She had killed one of her own tribe, her family, Nikolai’s fiancé.

  She felt herself being transferred to familiar arms. She opened her eyes for confirmation, and yes, her father, Orin, now held her, his muscular arms easily carrying her through the crowd.

  “They took Mother,” she said through gasping sobs.

  “I’ve got you, love, don’t worry,” he told her quietly.

  As Orin reached his hut, Nikolai grabbed his shoulder. “She should see Sigmia.”

  “It can wait,” Orin said through clenched teeth, and stepped inside, pushing the flap aside with his broad shoulder.

  *****

  Samara awoke on her sleeping mat. Her father sat cross-legged on the floor, not far away. Unlike the other men in the tribe, he kept his black hair and beard short. He had a leather mat in front of him, the contents of her herb pouch spread out on it. He flipped her blade over in his hand, inspecting each side.

  In his other hand, he held the gem and the melted gold, a frown on his face as he inspected the items. The circular hut was dim, but a couple of candles lit up his work area. Samara could see through the open flap that it was night.

  Outside, she heard the low growl of the forge. She also noticed the dim, white aura surrounding her father, reminding her of the events on the mountain, and she wondered if Yaroslav had returned with her mother. She sat up.

  Orin said, as if reading her thoughts, “The hunters have not returned.” He focused on the blade while he spoke, a frown etched on his face. Samara remained silent, her hope diminished. After a while, he looked at her, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and said, “Tell me, Samara, what happened up there? Y-your mother—” His voice cracked. He swallowed heavily, then continued, “Is she still alive?”

  Samara studied the floor and said, “I don’t know. Tall people came. But, Father, they weren’t like us.”

  “Were they Havallans?” Orin shouted, interrupting her before she could finish. She retreated from him, suddenly terrified. She had never heard her father shout before. She sensed the energy growing around her, enticing her to reach out for it.

  The flap to the hut opened, and a wrinkled, old woman wearing a colorful leather dress stood in the entrance. The faint light was blue around her and slightly brighter than her father’s white aura. Various trinkets hung from her necklaces and some were braided into her hair as well.

  “Heed the girl’s words,” Sigmia said. “Creatures the southerners call elves do exist and fit the description she gave Nikolai. Please don’t shout at your daughter. She’s been through a lot.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Orin told Samara. He put the items he held onto the mat. “It’s your mother. I’m worried about her.” Sigmia hobbled into the yurt, seating herself in front of him. Samara relaxed, and the power shrunk to the back of her consciousness again, like a retreating snake coiling up under a nearby rock. She crawled over to her father, climbed into his lap, and cried.

  “Oh look!” Sigmia said. “You brought me some herbs.” She smiled at Samara in an attempt to comfort her, but Samara didn’t lift her gaze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Can you please finish your tale, Samara?”

  Samara told them about how she went to the rock and saw the elves come and capture the women. She told them about the strange nets that seemed to come from air, but she stopped there. She didn’t want to talk about the rest of it, and she feared lying to Sigmia.

  “What are you leaving out, Samara?” Sigmia leaned forward and picked up the blade and the gem. “Nikolai told me about the strange anomalies up in the mountains, and we watched those ice crystals rise out of the earth from here. I need to know what you saw, child.”

  The elves did it, said the voice in her head. She chose to shrug rather than respond.

  “What’s this?” Sigmia asked, indicating the gem.

  “I found it in the mountains,” she said. Can I keep it? “May I keep it, Sigmia?”

  “I suppose,” Sigmia said, putting the gem down and picking up the molten metal. “What about this?”

  “It was with the blue rock,” Samara said.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  Samara shrugged, but Orin said, “It’s gold. The Havallan people find it valuable and use it to trade among themselves. One of the elves must have lost it.”

  “Hmm. What about your blade, Samara? Why is the handle broken, and why does it look blue?”

  She could answer those questions honestly enough. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “If you want to find your mother, Samara, we need to know what happened up there.”

  Tell them the elves did it, the voice said. “The elves did it,” Samara repeated. After capturing the others, they made the ice come. “After capturing the others, they made the ice come.”

  “How?” Sigmia asked. The old woman peered at her like an owl. Samara shifted uneasily under the shaman’s gaze. She waited for the voice to give her an answer. It never came.

  She started crying again. “I don’t know,” she said, after a sob.

  “Well, Samara, I would like you to come with me. We need to tell the others what happened, and we need to decide what to do. Yaroslav has not returned yet, and the tribe is getting restless. Nikolai wants to go in search of his father and mother, as do many of the other hunters who stayed behind. They expect some answers from you.”

  “She’ll be right there,” Orin said to the old shaman.

  Sigmia stood up to leave. “We’ll be in the meeting circle,” she said before stepping out.

  Orin picked up the blade again. “I’m going to fix your kukri. I have a handle already carved for it. I was going to give it to you at your coming-of-age ceremony. I was thinking of setting that gem into the pommel. Would you like that, love?”

  Samara waited for her tears to lessen before she answered. “Yes,” she said.

  “It won’t take me long, love. And . . .” He stood and placed her on her feet. “I’m going after your mother.”

  Frightened, Samara clung to his leg. “Don’t leave me alone, Father.” She believed in her father, but she also didn’t want to lose him.

  “I want you to stay here and be safe,” he said. “Go to Sigmia, do as she tells you. Stay close to her, but don’t tell her I left.” He picked up her bag and untangled her from his leg. Then he handed her the pack and urged her toward the door. “Go now. I have to get ready.”

  She hesitated at the flap. “Promise me you’ll come back,” she sobbed.

  “I’ll come back. Go now, the tribe is waiting,” Orin said. Samara stayed for a second longer, watching her father examine the blade and gem. She wanted to climb back into his lap. Instead, she turned to go, afraid she may never see him again.

  Chapter 3: Decisions

  Orin attached the new handle onto the blade in short order. Setting the blue gem into the ivory proved a much more difficult task. He carefully carved a seat for the gem in the pommel. Then, he flattened the gold, creating a thin band that he used to weave the stone into its new setting.

  Admiring his handiwork, he tested the weight of the kukri. The scrollwork common to the tribe was carved along the handle. The pommel looked like the head of the panthera, the tribe’s totem animal. The saber-toothed tiger’s mouth yawned open, its long, ivory fangs extending to its lower jaw; the gem sat behind the fangs, with the band of gold wrapped twice around it.

  He laid the blade on Samara’s mat, then grabbed some tools and the weapons he had made for himself over the years. Out of all the nomads who roamed the Hunting Grounds, Orin was probably the only blacksmith, a trade he had learned while staying with the Havallans for the four seasons after his daughter’s birth. This gave his tribe no small amount of renown on the plains.

  Other tribes went out of their way to trade with his people. The iron spears and tools he created were as valuabl
e as the mammoths. Steel such as that which he had made Samara’s blade with was even rarer, and he never traded these. As far as he knew, none of the other tribes on the Hunting Grounds had learned the trade, although a few had obtained steel from trading with people outside of the plains.

  It was difficult to leave any of his tools behind, especially his forge, but he wouldn’t be able to take a horse into the mountains. Therefore, he filled a backpack with the implements he could use to remake the others if he had to. He also made room for a handful of knives and some axes.

  After strapping his sword to his back, he attached his spear to the bag, hefted the package up, and slid it over his shoulders. The weight would slow him down, and he still needed to make room for some food and his water bag.

  Removing the pack once again, he hesitantly unloaded a few knives and threw in a bag of dried foods. He attached his water bag to the outside of his pack, then hoisted it onto his back once more.

  The bag was still heavy, and would slow him down considerably, but he refused to remove anything else. He had packed for a long trip and a big fight. He could always hunt and forage in the mountains if he needed more food.

  In addition to blacksmithing, the Havallans had also taught him to fight with weapons of war, which were much different than the spears and knives the tribe normally used. As it turned out, he excelled at this style of combat. The Havallan guards had called him Alnamar, Havallan for panthera, because of his muscular physique and agility.

  When Orin had returned to his tribe, he had attempted to convince his fellow tribesman to adopt the use of these weapons; however, they had refused all but the steel knives and spearheads. Occasionally, the tribes would fight each other, and he had felt that the steel would provide his people with an advantage, despite their refusal to use the Havallan weapons.

  After dressing warmly, he shouldered his pack, testing its weight again. Although he felt certain he could handle the load, the straps strained to hold their burden. With some spare leather, he fashioned extra straps to disperse the bulk more evenly, then stepped out of his yurt.

  The night air was cold against his skin. He could see the tribe beginning to form around the central fire for their meeting. He felt torn and angry; the two people he loved more than anything were separated from him. Still, he trusted the old shaman to look after his daughter. Natalia, on the other hand, was out there somewhere, captured, perhaps injured, and Yaroslav had not returned.

  He grabbed a bag of dirt and poured it over the glowing coals of his forge, smothering them. He glanced once more toward the gathering tribe, and a tear fell from his chin. He had once been the chief of this tribe, but since he had returned from Havalla, he had felt like an outsider. Turning toward the mountains, he hiked off into the night, the babble of the camp diminishing as he went.

  Grass whipped his shins as he drew closer to the mountains. The sounds of camp had faded to a quiet din, the air filled instead with cricket song. He stopped at a tall tree and turned around to look back at the domed huts highlighted by the fire.

  He thought of his daughter sitting with Sigmia, scared and alone. He almost went back to her at that moment but stopped himself, trusting the tribe to care for her until his return. He hoped that he would meet the hunters returning with good news, but he doubted that would happen. If Yaroslav had found anything, surely he would have sent a runner with news by now.

  Unless something bad had happened. What if Yaroslav and his band had fallen to the elves? Fear ate at him, and he hoped he had made the right decision when he left his daughter at the camp. He told himself that at least Samara was still with the tribe, and that Natalia needed him more urgently.

  When he heard footsteps behind him, he reached over his shoulder for his sword. Then he noticed the familiar clacking of trinkets and relaxed. When he turned, Sigmia hobbled over, using her tall walking stick to rest on.

  “You waited for me?” he asked.

  “Aye, I wanted to make sure none of the tribe heard what I had to say,” she said.

  “And I suppose the spirits told you that I left?” He smiled.

  Chuckling, she said, “You’re predictable. I didn’t need spirits to tell me you would go after Natalia.”

  Suddenly serious, she said, “But the spirits have been restless. They tell of a big change, and Samara’s involved somehow. I sense that Natalia lives, and I know it’s hard to wait for word from the hunters, but it would be better if you waited with us. I feel danger loping out of the mountains.”

  Orin stared at the old shaman, considering her words. Then he shook his head. “We should have heard from Yaroslav by now; he wouldn’t have left us guessing,” he said, clenching his teeth and balling his hands into fists. He wished to continue on his way. “I sense that Natalia lives as well. I need to get to her. She may be in danger.”

  “Yaroslav and ten other hunters . . .” Sigmia paused, then continued, “. . . warriors . . . are pursuing her and the others,” the old shaman said, exasperated.

  She took a deep breath and set her gaze to the ground. “Orin, you always were hasty. Regardless, your instincts have served you well in the past. I fear this time may be a mistake though. Your tribe needs you.” She looked him in the eyes. “Samara needs you.”

  He took his time to respond. When he did, he said, “The last thing I want to do is leave my daughter. However, I’ve thought this over, and . . .” He pointed at the dark outline of the strange, frozen crystals. “Well, look.” Sigmia turned to contemplate the silhouettes of the shards, frowning. “Whatever did that, it will take more than ‘warriors’ to save our women,” he said.

  “Do you think you’ll fare any better?” Sigmia asked, turning back to him.

  “I’ll die trying,” he said, clenching his hands again.

  “And you think that’s fair to Samara?” she asked.

  “Do you think it’s fair for Natalia? For Accalia? For any of the women?” he shouted.

  “Don’t yell at me, Orin,” Sigmia said, standing up straighter.

  Orin looked away, taking a few deep breaths. “I apologize, Sigmia. But Samara still has the tribe, and . . . and she has you.” He glanced back at Sigmia, his brow furrowed. “Natalia . . . the women. They are without help.”

  Sigmia leaned heavily on her stick. “Oh, my weary bones. Samara has at least six more winters before she comes of age. She’s a quick learner and has taken a strong interest in medicinal lore. There’s still much she needs to learn. I will take care of her if you do not return.”

  Orin hugged the tiny woman. “Thank you, shaman. I will return,” he said.

  Frowning, Sigmia walked back toward the camp. “I hope you can keep that promise, blacksmith,” she said.

  Jewelry rattled as the old woman walked away. Orin watched her go, grateful that she didn’t persist further. He already felt guilty for leaving Samara behind. He loved his daughter as much as he loved his wife, and he wanted the best for both of them. But he couldn’t simply let Natalia be abducted without at least trying to save her.

  Once again, he felt a strong desire to return to the camp, yet he soldiered on toward the mountains. He kicked a fist-sized stone out of his way, as if the rock had offended him, then continued toward the dark shape of the crystalline wall.

  By the time he reached the pine woods two hours later, the moon stood directly above him, and the lights of his tribe were but a tiny speck in the distance. As he passed through the dark woods, following the markers left by the women who had come this way earlier that day, both these lights were blotted out by the branches overhead.

  The smell of mildew and pine were a far cry from the dry smell of grass on the plains, and the sounds of the forest were unfamiliar as well. He had only rarely traveled through forests at night, so he kept a close eye on the markers. As he continued his journey, he reflected on the words Sigmia had left him with.

  In his mind, he could see his daughter clearly. The dark rings under her eyes, the way she shook, and the pain reflected
in her face. Natalia would want him to stay with their daughter, but he hated the thought of his wife not being around.

  Orin never cried; he hated crying. So when a sob escaped him, he growled angrily. Taking an axe from his belt, he smashed it into a tree. Wildly, he continued to slash at the wood, yelling to keep his sobs at bay; nevertheless, tears poured down his face in an unabated torrent that wouldn’t stop. Finally, he gave up and sobbed into his arm, leaning against the tree he had so viciously attacked only moments before.

  When he recovered from his outburst, he wiped the tears from his eyes and began moving up the mountain again. He had decided to return to Samara, but he wanted to see the ice wall for himself first. As he neared the wall, he began to feel better about his decision. He would return to his daughter, and if he never saw Natalia again, he would do his best for his little girl.

  When he reached up and grasped a tree to help pull himself up the slope, his hand slipped; the branch felt smooth, cold, and wet. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was covered in ice.

  By the time he reached the copse of twisted and burnt trees, he was glad that he had dressed warmly. He stepped onto a hard surface that crunched under his hide boots and found that the ground was glazed like pottery or obsidian. The heat had to have been intense to glaze the surface, he reflected.

  He moved through the destruction, a little awed. Unlike the others in his tribe, he had seen something like this before, but on a much smaller scale. Priestess Samara could manipulate fire and water. She could make water from thin air, and light candles and torches just by touching them.

  She had called it magic, but Orin was uncertain whether the level of destruction in this scene could have had been created through the same means.

  The trees were nothing more than blackened husks near the center. Stepping onto a massive rock, he came upon the covered body of Karena. The chief had left her there so as to not waste any time in the pursuit of the captive women. Orin felt he would have done the same thing, but he had time now. He would take the poor girl back to the encampment, where they could hold a proper tribal ceremony.