by Kaden Reed
Gasping in wonder at witnessing the miracle, the onlookers broke into excited whispering. Sporadic shouts of devotion to Cainan were pledged until Emma raised her hand for silence once again, “Cainan has decided that he needs the strength of the orcs of Krolkun Dar more now than ever. We are in trying times, war is coming. With enemies to all sides and allies few in number, Cainan has sent me here to gather all of the warriors that will join the Chosen.”
A sinking feeling in the Chief’s stomach befell him at her words. With the display everyone just witnessed, he feared that a great many more of his warriors than the sixty-seven that signed up for today’s events would elect to join the Chosen.
The three Chosen that had accompanied Emma, jumped down from the platform and joined Emma on the sand. She turned to the enthralled multitude and addressed them, “any warriors that wish to join the Chosen will need to meet us at the wagons. The enemies of our people will not delay their brutal attacks, so we must not pause our efforts to fight them. We leave in five minutes.”
The crowd erupted in a fervor as the Chosen strode deliberately out of the arena. The warriors that had entered today’s ceremony in the hopes of being found worthy, followed them out of the arena. The Chief looked on in dismay as dozens of his people from the crowd, eager to accept the gift of power that was just promised them, jumped down onto the sand and followed them out the doors.
Slumping back into his seat, he knew that if he addressed his people and discouraged them from accepting this gift, he would find himself either stripped of his position or dead in a matter of hours. As he watched more of his warriors leave the arena, he wondered if enough would remain to keep his people safe in the coming months. The monsters in the area had recently gotten bolder, with a few even found striding around the streets of the village.
A grunt behind him announced the presence of another person, “my Chief,” the voice of his Adjunct spoke hesitatingly, “Brugo and Yaz desire to accompany you to the feast.”
Sighing, Suhgarod said, “send them up here. I am not in the mood to join the feast at the moment.”
“Yes, my Chief,” Morbash replied before withdrawing.
A few moments later the steady plodding gait of his oldest friend joined him on the platform, “that was quite a show Suhgarod.”
Grunting, Suhgarod shook his head, “I do not see how we will recover from this. I expect an entire generation will be leaving with those wagons today.”
Frowning, Brugo sat down on one of the empty chairs and said, “you are probably right.”
Yaz grabbed another chair and moved it towards the men before joining them, “what will you do?”
“I have no idea,” Suhgarod replied honestly.
The three sat in silence, staring at each other as they pondered the magnitude of the calamity that just befell the village.
“Since we are on the subject of the missing generation,” Brugo cautiously asked the Chief, “have you had any word of your son?”
Biting back the angry retort that begged to be unleashed upon his oldest friend as the familiar pang of grief and sorrow flared within his heart when his son was mentioned, Suhgarod answered simply, “no.”
As if sensing the danger Brugo backed off from the subject, but Yaz persisted, “what happened to your son?”
Grimacing, Suhgarod wanted nothing more at that moment than to rise to his feet and depart. To run away from the harsh questions that had no answers. Instead he sighed and turned away from his friends, not wanting to see the recognition of his grief on their faces, “he went missing three years ago.”
After the silence weighed on them, Brugo filled in for his friend, “Suhgarod’s son went on a solo hunting expedition like I did, three years ago. As it was his first hunt, he was scheduled to return to the village after three months.” Brugo sighed, “that deadline came and went without him returning. Search parties were sent out with our best trackers but were unable to find his trail.”
“Oh,” Yaz said with grief in her voice, “I am so sorry Suhgarod.”
“He is not dead,” the Chief retorted determinedly, “my son is not dead. He is out there somewhere, living the sort of life that every hunter has dreamed of. A life of freedom and harmony with nature.”
The three friends sat in silence for a time again before it was hesitantly interrupted by Yaz, “what was-,” she broke off abruptly, “I mean - what is his name?”
Suhgarod said, “I named him after my grandfather. A great warrior and leader to our people.” He paused before proudly proclaiming, “his name is Boglinimethor.”
Yaz nodded politely, as silence resumed between the three.
Chief Suhgarod strode to the edge of the platform and watched as his people filed out of the arena to join the feast. Saying softly to himself, “Boglinimethor, my son, where are you?”
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Thank you for reading Akashi’s Will, Book One in The Harbinger Chronicles Series.
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