He admired the young man and was glad to have him around, despite his earlier accusation against Samara. He gave Nikolai a rare smile and nodded. He would not give up, and besides, he had already made up his mind that if the women were dead, he was still going to pursue the elves and make them pay for the deaths of his family members.
The two of them inspected the area, gathering up the rest of the bodies. By the time they had finished, they had also found Adrik, Lyev, Mikhail, and Taras. They piled these next to the others and said a quick prayer to the spirits.
After their task was complete, Orin frowned. “Well, let’s keep going.”
*****
Through forested slopes, the duo followed their quarry, never seeming to catch up, but never giving up hope either. The sun had climbed out of the eastern Hunting Grounds four times by the time Nikolai tracked the elves to the banks of Mammoth River. It was retreating behind the mountains, casting a shadow far over the Hunting Grounds and coloring the sky a deep orange when the young man stopped at the edge of the rapidly flowing water. The roar of the river drowned out the bird song that had accompanied them ever since they had left the ice barrier behind.
Catching up, Orin picked his way through the woods over to Nikolai. He took a deep breath and smelled the wetness of the river. “I want to keep moving, but I know we need to rest and eat. Do you know where the tracks go from here?” he asked, loudly enough to be heard over the rapids.
Nikolai cast around, then said, “They seem to end here, but I don’t think they crossed the river, especially not with captives. I’ll look around while you set up camp.”
Orin smirked at the younger man, nodding. “Yes, Chief,” he said, patting Nikolai on the shoulder. Stepping down to a flat spot next to the river, he began digging a pit with his axe. The ground was muddy and stuck to his blade, making the task more difficult, but he eventually managed it.
When he finished, he washed off in the river and saw that Nikolai had gone. He dried his hands and went in search of dry wood to build a fire with, not an easy task so close to the water. Kicking around the forest floor, he finally found the type of fuel he wanted. Green or wet kindling would cause a lot of smoke, and he didn’t want the elves to know they were behind them.
Returning to camp, he stacked the wood into a cone, then dug through his pack to find his flint. As he tried to light the fire, he heard Nikolai bellowing his name in the distance. He yanked his heavy sword from his pack and sprinted toward the shout.
He leaped around the uneven ground and vaulted over a fallen tree. Stopping in a small clearing not too far upstream from their camp, he realized that he should have run across Nikolai by then. He cast around on the ground, nervously searching for tracks.
Just before he started to backtrack, he heard Nikolai say, “Up here.” He glanced up just in time to see the young man jump off a tree, landing like a cat in the clearing beside him. A freshly slain rabbit hung at his waist, still bleeding from its neck, reinforcing Orin’s appreciation of having him along, saving him the task of hunting.
Orin sighed in relief. “Is there trouble?” he asked.
“I would ask you the same thing,” Nikolai said, glancing at the blacksmith’s drawn sword.
Orin lowered the weapon. “I just heard you call for me.”
Shaking his head, Nikolai said, “No trouble, but I found their tracks. They head west up the river. And . . .” He walked over to the tree he had just jumped from and pointed up.
“When I climbed into this tree for a better view, I noted some tracks up there, in the bark. I can’t be certain, but I think they’re from those elf creatures. The tracks seem to jump from one limb to another, and they follow the other tracks west.” He walked a little west up the slope and crouched down.
Orin followed him to the tracks, which were unmistakably the ones they had been trailing.
He swept his eyes over the line of footprints, charting their trajectory. It appeared that the group had gone west through a crevice that cut through the peaks, just below the glaciers. Nikolai followed his gaze. “Yes, they had to go through there. The peaks are steep and look treacherous.” Orin nodded and patted him on the back.
“Good work,” he said. “Come, I’ll get the fire started. We’ll begin early tomorrow.”
“Why do you think they’re keeping them alive?” Nikolai asked. Orin stopped and gazed at the boy.
“I don’t know anything about these creatures, but I know people can sometimes do bad things,” he said. “We just need to get them back as soon as we can.”
“Should we stop for rest?”
Orin kept walking and said, “I want nothing more than to continue without resting. The sooner the better, but we have an advantage already. They’re moving captives, and by necessity, must move slower. We’ll catch up to them and, with rest, we’ll have the energy to fight.”
When they reached the fire pit, he went to work starting the fire. Nikolai sat next to him, his brow furrowed in thought.
After the wood blazed to life, Orin sat and stared into the flames as well. They danced across the kindling at the bottom. He watched them leap higher and higher, finally dropping back down when the twigs burned away, leaving only the logs behind.
“What will we do if we get the women back?” Nikolai finally asked, breaking the silence between them.
“When,” Orin said.
“Okay, when.”
Orin picked up a stick and poked at the fire. He hadn’t given it much thought, but he did know that when a tribe lacked enough people, they would sometimes be adopted by stronger tribes. A good leader might rebuild. Finally, he shared these thoughts with the young chief.
Nikolai stared at him for a bit, then puffed out his chest. “I will rebuild!”
Orin smiled at him, then whacked him in the arm. “You can start by cooking that rabbit.”
Chapter 7: Nightmares
The sun threw its warm rays onto the clearing. Birds fluttered and sang in the trees while blackberries and flowers painted a colorful portrait against the green foliage. A woman picked some of the berries and hummed along with the birds.
Yet the scene seemed distant and muffled to Samara. Although she also picked berries, something felt off, as though she were only watching herself pick the fruit.
The woman, who the girl now recognized as her mother, laughed, and Samara looked toward her. In a heartbeat, the distance between them evaporated, and her mother’s face filled her vision. Tears pooled in Natalia’s brown eyes. “Help me!” she pleaded. “Don’t forget me, Samara. You must help me.”
“Mom!” Samara screamed, as the space between them began to stretch away, her mother dwindling into nothingness. “What do you mean?”
She heard laughter next to her and turned to see a copy of herself cutting berries with the knife her father had made her. Juice stained her lips, her hands, the blade of her kukri. She peered down at her own hands, and they, too, were stained, but with blood instead of juice. She glanced up, and her doppelgänger was gone.
Darkness crept into the clearing, and the wind picked up. “Mom!” she yelled again, then ran toward where she had last seen her mother. She slowly caught up and was shocked to discover that her mom was running away from her. Samara chased her through the tall, evergreen trunks, which caught fire as she passed them. “Mom?” she called after her. “Please, Mom, don’t leave me.”
Again, she heard laughter behind her and then, “Don’t leave me,” said a mocking voice. She stopped running and turned around. Out of the burning forest, she saw her doppelgänger again. It floated out of the flames, gazing down at her.
Within an instant, she stood face-to-face with herself. Staring into her own deep blue eyes, the world burning behind her, the doppelgänger whispered, “You killed them! You killed them all!”
Samara woke, teetering on her heels. After swooning a little and stumbling forward, she sat down roughly under a tree. She briefly wondered if she had been sleepwalking; then her eyelids
eclipsed the obscure landscape before her once more.
She stood on the mountain above the clearing, fire dancing all around her like an obscene orgy of snakes. Directly in front of her, Karena scooted backward, away from her. Terror distorted her face, her mouth wide open in a scream. The world shifted until Samara could see herself, floating above the rock. A flaming monster, she loomed above the terrified girl. Then she lunged forward . . .
Her eyes snapped open; they were puffy, with dark rings around them. She hadn’t slept since waking near the mammoths. Every time she had tried, a horrible nightmare would plague her dreams, and she would wake up crying and give up on sleep. So she had continued to walk, hoping to catch up to her tribe.
Using a tree for support, she climbed back to her feet. She yawned, took a few heavy steps forward, then fell over again. She had tried to sleep the previous night . . . no, maybe two nights ago. She wasn’t sure how many days had passed; they all seemed to blur together. All she could remember was continuous walking and learning magic.
Samara, stop! You need to sleep, Illtud’s voice slipped into her foggy mind.
She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, taking slow, deep breaths. “More spells,” she mumbled.
Not until you get some sleep, he said.
“I can’t,” she said, her breath disturbing the dirt and grass just inches below her face.
Then I can’t teach you anymore.
“Fine!” she shouted, her temper getting the best of her. “They’re stupid spells anyway.”
Eventually, she climbed to her feet again. She lumbered on through the sparsely forested land, with only the birds to keep her company; the spirit had stopped talking to her after she had yelled at him.
Occasionally, she stopped to pick some plants, muttering the name of the herb and what it was good for as she did. Her bag bulged with her various harvests.
She wavered to a stop in front of a tall leafy plant with a bundle of thorny seeds on its tip. “Porcupine weed,” she said, then used her knife to sever the herb at its base. “Chew the leaves to a pulp and apply to open wounds.”
She continued walking, removing the leaves from the stem and stuffing them into her bloated bag to distract herself from the dreams that haunted her every step.
So intent was she on the stem she held that she failed to notice the steep decline in front of her. Her foot came down, and when the ground wasn’t where she expected it to be, she tripped into a shallow stream. She pushed her head out of the water, sputtering. The cold liquid soaked through her clothing, and she leaped up, water pouring from her sleeves, the stream swirling around her knees.
She looked around, surprised. The mountains in the west concealed half the sun, causing the pine trees to cast long shadows over the grass. Hills stood in front of the massive peaks like an honor guard. The world came into focus as if she had been startled out of a dream.
The land around her seemed alien. The pine trees were shorter than the ones she had left behind near the plains. The vast expanse of the Hunting Grounds couldn’t be seen; to the east, where they should have been, a valley spread out.
A hill on the far side of the basin gradually climbed out of the earth. Willow trees grew in thick tangles on both banks, twisting together to form a tunnel over the stream. In another time, Samara would have enjoyed playing among the willows, but play was the furthest thing from her mind now.
Shortly after her shocked surveillance of the land, she realized how dehydrated she was. Her mouth felt like a sandbag, and her water skin hung limp at her side. Dropping back to her knees, she scooped the liquid into her mouth, spilling more than she took in.
When she felt hydrated enough, she walked over to the tunnel of willow branches. Using her knife, she scraped off a handful of bark. “Willow,” she said. “Boil to make a tea that relieves pain.”
When she opened her pouch, she found that it overflowed with leaves, mushrooms, and seeds, all bundled tightly together, with no organization. She shoved the bark into her bag and forced the flap back shut.
As she crawled into the tightly woven forest of willows, fatigue began to weigh her down again. The ground felt very soft under its covering of thin, fallen leaves, and her body, heavy. She found a little grove within the knots of trees. One of the willows grew almost parallel to the ground there, cutting the copse in half.
Although she found she could sit on the trunk of the tree, she sat below it instead, emptying her handbag onto the soft ground. Her collection of herbs fell out in a ball and slowly untangled on the sandy floor.
She started separating the different plants, but sleep fought to overtake her, and she kept losing track of what she had done. Soon, exhaustion defeated her, and she passed out over her collections.
. . . Karena’s flesh peeled off like a rose opening for the morning sun, exposing muscle, which sizzled and popped until it dried, blackened, and caramelized to the bone. A winged serpent, a demon from childhood stories, Samara leaped into the air, leaving behind a charred skeleton that crumbled into dust when it was hit by the gusts from her wings.
She flew over the encampment, her flaming body raining fire and ash, igniting the fighting humans and elves below. The people scattered, running from her, screaming in terror. The children cowered in the dark, her friend Alfan pleading, “No, Samara. Please, I thought you were my friend.”
She inhaled them and watched a gory mixture swirl around her, composed of tiny pieces of flesh and droplets of blood. The monster Samara loved it, while the observer watched in horror, helpless and afraid.
Nikolai and an elf clung to a tree, their feet flapping in the air like flags; then bright, red light replaced everything, and it all blinked away. She stood alone in a vast field of black. Nothing was left, nothing . . .
*****
Much later that night, Sigmia stepped up to the edge of the stream. She had been unable to keep up with Samara. The girl had walked for days without sleep, and Sigmia hadn’t the energy for such travel.
Fortunately, Samara had been traveling very slowly. The shaman cast around the ground, but the child had obviously gone into the stream. She had just lifted her skirt, ready to cross, when she heard in her head, In the thicket to your right.
Sigmia, no stranger to spirits, responded, Who are you?
My name is Illtud. I’ve been looking after Samara, he said.
Sigmia frowned a deep, disapproving frown. That is not a name given by our people. Why are you helping the girl?
Illtud sounded impatient. Does it really matter? She’s been delirious. She hardly sleeps, and she hasn’t eaten in days. She hadn’t drank anything until we reached this stream. I’m afraid she’s dying.
Sigmia sighed. She killed my people. I should let her die. She’s dangerous.
If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have been following us.
The spirit spoke the truth, and Sigmia had no reason to argue. Hobbling toward the thicket, she asked, Where is she going?
The spirit didn’t answer right away. Sigmia crawled into the grove and sat next to the girl, whose sleep was fitful with nightmares. Finally, Illtud said, She’s going to her mother and father.
Her mother and father are in the mountains, not Havalla. She has left her mother and father, Sigmia responded while she searched through a pouch. She pulled out a smaller pouch and laid it next to the sleeping girl.
We’re going around, the spirit responded.
“Hmm,” Sigmia said. At first, I thought you a demon, but you seem to care for Samara. I feel that you are sincere, yet I don’t trust you. Why did you have her kill all our people?
Me? Illtud sounded indignant. She did that on her own. Let me tell you what happened, human. There was so much derision in Illtud’s voice when he said “human” that Sigmia shivered. First know, I’m an elf! My people were in the mountains when we came upon you humans in that clearing. I was with one of my young mages.
Sigmia spat at the word and said, Havallan witchcraft.
Y
ou show your ignorance, human, Illtud responded. The mage was Talron, and he stayed behind after we detained your females because we noticed Samara wasn’t with the others. Talron said he would get the girl, then he sent the others back to camp with our new servants.
Why would you take my people as slaves? Sigmia interrupted.
Illtud sounded bored, I have no desire to explain your place in the natural world, human. Stop interrupting.
Proceed, Sigmia ordered, showing her defiance to the spirit.
Indeed, Illtud said, sounding annoyed. Excitement took over as he continued.
That’s when something awoke in Samara, something powerful. I am a very old mage, and I’ve not seen the likes of it. She stopped Talron’s spell and flung it back at him, and even smashed through his magic protection. But she had no control over it.
His voice quickened with enthusiasm. That ice monolith, the flaming ball in your camp, that was all uncontrolled, powerful magic. I thought both times that she would die in the process. No mage can use that much of their magic without dying from exhaustion. Using magic takes a toll on a mage. She should be dead.
Sigmia frowned. You’re telling me it was an accident?
Yes, that’s what I’m telling you, he said. What I don’t understand is that I’ve been teaching her to control it, and she weakens like any mage apprentice would. Sigmia could tell that he was no longer speaking to her, but rather to himself. If she were to do what she did the other day, it would kill her.
Perhaps what you saw was an anomaly, Sigmia replied.
Perhaps, he said.
Digging through her pouch again, Sigmia pulled out some dried mammoth and placed it in front of Samara. I will stay and help take care of her.
I don’t think that’s a good idea, Illtud replied.
Please explain, Sigmia said as she stroked Samara’s filthy hair out of her face.
The Unfettered Child Page 10