Sons of the Lost

by Glynn James

  It’s a strange way to consider it , he thought. He should be pleased. Few of the defenders had fallen, from what he could see, and every Cygoa warrior that had stepped onto the causeway was now dead, the last with an arrow in his back as he fled back along the causeway. Every single one of them, to a man, dead.

  He thought that was it—that the war was now over—even though it seemed so brief and somehow small. He had imagined the Cygoa army to be vast. Thousands and thousands of heavily armored warriors, but their numbers had been no greater than the Elk clan’s warriors alone, maybe even half of the Elk. It was ridiculous. Why they had thought to come all this way to kill the clans when they had so few warriors themselves was crazy. Had they kept most of them back at Wytheville to defend the city when the Elk came calling? Maybe that was it?

  But as he stood there, listening to the long, drawn out call of the horn from the north, watching the tree line across the northern causeway and wondering where the noise was coming from, a thought occurred to him. Most of the forces of the clans were on the southern causeway, facing off what they expected and predicted to be the Cygoa army, but the attack had been pitiful, really. Only the Nikkt and a few dozen others guarded the north, along with a bunch of scouts. It was a smaller causeway, and damaged beyond use or flooded in many places, and the wall they built was only thirty feet across compared to the hundred-foot-wide monstrosity in the south. The northern causeway was infinitely easier to defend with the causeway barely intact and the shoreline stretched for miles around to get to the broken road.

  No one with any sense would attack from that direction.

  But dark figures appeared from the tree line, racing across the broken ground. Row upon row of warriors with axes, hammers and spears, all carrying shields, burst from the forest and spewed onto the road. Within seconds there were double, even triple the number that had crossed the southern causeway, and they were running at full charge along the shorter—if less even—ground toward a wall defended by a third or less of their number. Only scouts and Nikkt warriors were there to stop them. He watched as the Cygoa easily ran through the water that he had thought was much deeper.

  When they broke through, and by their number Gideon had no doubt they would, they would be much closer to the village and the camps than his father and the main host of the clans on the southern causeway.

  “They won’t even know they’re coming,” he muttered to himself. “The camp will be attacked from the north and they will be looking south.”

  Then he was running, boots thudding on the dry mud along the dirt path that he had ambled slowly along dozens of times. He knew the path well and didn’t falter, perfectly anticipating every turn, every corner, every dip in the path that could make him stumble. Four hundred yards, then two hundred. At fifty yards away from the entrance to the camp, he started shouting, calling to anyone that might hear, and he didn’t stop.

  Moments later he was through the northern entrance, shouting at the guards to tell everyone to flee, running through the tents and calling on everyone to grab their children and run east, away from the camp and away from the north where the Cygoa were coming from.

  He nearly crashed into Logan as he came limping over to see what was wrong.

  “They’re coming!” Gideon gasped, out of breath.

  “Calm down, boy,” said Logan. “Take breath... Gideon, what has gotten into you?”

  “Did you hear the horn?” asked Gideon.

  “Yes,” said Logan. “The scouts are in the north. It must be them.”

  “No!” Gideon shouted. “It’s not the scouts. It’s Donast. They’re coming from the north, along the broken causeway. The Cygoa. Hundreds of them.” He was out of breath. “My father is in the wrong place. The attack is coming from the north.”

  Chapter 48

  Sasha didn’t understand. Warriors ran around the camp, and she heard their horns blowing. Jonah had said that they had enough men to face the Cygoa. In fact, he had said they had enough to defeat them. And yet, she had questioned having to defend both causeways. Sasha had not spoken to Jonah about this because she did not feel as though it was her right to do so.

  And where was Gideon? The boy should have been up in the old oaks at the edge of the camp, in one of the overwatch nests. He’d promised her that he would be safe and that he would stay thirty or forty feet in the air. He wasn’t there. No one was. She realized she had been standing in the clearing near the largest oak, immobilized by all the potential horrors running through her mind. Sasha clutched a pack in one hand and a small knife in the other. She looked at the bedrolls and other items the family had used, and she realized she could leave them all behind. Nothing was more important than her family.

  Jonah was on the front line, and Gideon was nowhere to be found. And what of her daughter? She should be in the camp still.

  “Keana!”

  When Sasha stepped out of the tent, she had been almost run down by the Elk sprinting through the camp. Several tents on the perimeter had already been set alight by someone, and the former occupants had fled. People grabbed what they could while others ran into the forest with nothing. It had to be the Cygoa. They were here. They were in the camp, somehow. But it didn’t make sense. They were in the northern section of the camp.

  “Keana!” she cried again.

  “She’s fine,” said Logan, the old man hobbling towards her with a stupid grin on his face. “Don’t know why everyone is in such a panic. The Cygoa must have snuck a few through the front lines, but we can take care of them.”

  “I don’t care, old man. I want to know where my daughter is—and my son.”

  “Your son is out by the east entrance. I sent him there when he came hurrying in yelling some nonsense and frightening people.”

  Two women ran past, dragging children by the arms. The kids appeared to be three or four years old, and their dirty faces were streaked with tears.

  “Keana’s probably hiding, or maybe she is out by the entrance with her brother already. Why don’t you head over there and wait for the Elk warriors to come into the camp?”

  “Didn’t you hear the horn?”

  Logan huffed. “The damn Nikkt and their confounded blowing. A man can’t get three minutes of silence with that damn clan around.”

  Sasha snapped her head left and right, quickly scanning the Elk running through the camp and hoping to see her daughter there as well. Logan saw the way Sasha was looking at those people fleeing the causeway, and so he stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you find her. I’m sure that by the time we do, Jonah will have returned with war loot and a growling belly, and the two of you can then fix him an evening meal.”

  “I don’t understand how you can be so casual about the situation. The Cygoa are already setting fire to our tents. Things are not right.”

  Sasha watched the old man’s head turn as he gazed to the north where black smoke began to trail into the late afternoon sky. The clouds had hazed over the sun.

  “Let’s find your daughter,” Logan said, not willing or able to engage the seriousness of Sasha’s observation.

  She nodded and continued calling her daughter by name. Logan followed Sasha through the camp. He tried to keep up with her as best as he could. At times, he gave up and stood in the middle of the collection of tents while Sasha poked her head inside of each of them, calling out for Keana.

  Sasha felt an uneasy tug in her stomach. Whether it was women’s intuition or a motherly feeling, she knew her daughter was in trouble. She felt dizzy, and her ears began to ring. The number of Cygoa warriors moving through the camp, fighting the defenders, seemed to grow, as did the amount of bodies on the ground. She came out of an empty tent and ran into Logan. The condescending tone and knowing smirk had been wiped away, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, the old man appeared to fear for his life.

  “We should leave.”

  “I will die here before
I abandon my daughter.”

  The Cygoa warriors stepped through the camp with a slow and confident gait. They grabbed women by the hair and stabbed the elderly through the chest as if walking through a field of sunflowers to gather seeds. Sasha knew that Logan could no longer claim these were just a few stragglers from the battlefield. Jonah had either died or surrendered—although she doubted it was the latter. Her only hope now was to find her daughter and pray to the gods that her son had indeed left the camp.

  At first, Logan had opened his mouth to argue with Sasha. But then his eyes lit up, and he pointed at a copse of pine trees on the southwest corner of the camp. Before he could speak, Sasha saw a fluttering blue ribbon stuck on one of the low hanging branches—the same color ribbon Keana had been putting in her hair as of late.

  “It’s her,” Sasha said as she sprinted for the trees, leaving the old man hobbling behind her.

  As she got closer, she could see that her daughter lay on her back, her face red and her chest moving up and down. She was alive but unconscious. Sasha sprinted faster as more cries came from within the camp. She could hear Logan coughing and spitting as he tried to keep up with her.

  Sasha dropped down to the ground and shook her daughter by the shoulders. “Wake up, girl! Wake up!”

  Keana groaned, and Sasha brought her hands to her mouth to stifle a small outburst of gratitude. Logan arrived and put a hand on Sasha’s shoulder.

  “We can’t stay here, and I can’t carry her.”

  “We’ll hide. I am not leaving her.”

  Before Logan could respond, three Cygoa warriors pushed through the underbrush and stopped a few feet away from Sasha. The one in the middle chuckled before breaking into a grin.

  “Well, lookie here.”

  Chapter 49

  Carlossa stood in the middle of the Elk camp, a few feet away from a fire that was still burning. A deer cooked on a spit over the coals and the underside of the carcass was starting to turn black. Carlossa watched it for a moment as he listened to the chaos around him, then stepped forward and turned the spit. He would eat it in the middle of the camp when this business was done.

  “We found one of the old ones,” came a voice from nearby. Carlossa turned away from the deer to face the group that pushed its way between two tents. Three Cygoa warriors, all of them bloodied and weary, escorted two women and an old man. Carlossa smiled and indicated that they bring the old man closer. One of the warriors pushed the man forward and then kicked him in the back of the leg so that he buckled over, falling to his knees.

  “Name yourself, old one,” Carlossa demanded, but the old man looked up at him defiantly and spat at him. The fat glob of gunk just missed, and Carlossa grinned at the man. “Nice try. Now, name yourself or you will die in the most shameful way I can imagine, after I’ve killed one of these women before you.”

  “Don’t,” cursed the man, an expression of panic sweeping across his face. “You mustn’t.”

  “Oh?” asked Carlossa, drawing his axe and moving toward the Cygoa warrior holding the younger woman. “I mustn’t?” he continued. “I grew up with tales of how your kin slaughtered entire villages of my ancestors, and only decades ago, not long before I was born. By the look of you I’d say you were of the right age. Old and withered, but full of memories of what you did in the past.”

  Carlossa waited for the man to speak, staring him in the face. There was uncertainty there, he could feel it, or was it maybe guilt? Then the man looked him in the eye and he saw resignation and then defiance. The man took a deep breath and glared back at him.

  “I am Logan of the T’yun. I am Logan Fellwalker, High Champion of the First Clan. I killed many of your kin, Cygoa whelp. Before you were born my name was one that was feared among your clans.”

  Carlossa nodded and continued to smile. He wanted to know more before he killed this man. “Keep talking,” he said.

  The man glanced at the two women, then back to Carlossa.

  “Are these your kin?” Carlossa asked. “Should I take pleasure in repaying your past deeds with one of my own, before you die?”

  “No,” the old man spat. “They are not my kin.”

  Carlossa took a step farther toward the younger woman. Both had been gagged to stop them calling out, and he stepped forward and tore the gag from the young woman’s mouth, then smiled once more as she responded as he had expected.

  “Leave him alone,” she hissed.

  “Oh?” said Carlossa, enjoying the moment. “Leave him be? Stop tormenting him? Should I just get this over with then, girl?” he lifted his axe and started to walk toward the old man.

  “No!” cried the girl. “Don’t! Stop!”

  “Stop?” asked Carlossa, spinning back on the woman, this time he was no longer smiling; a mask of rage had replaced the grin. “Who are you to tell me to stop? Do you think the T’yun thought to stop when they were murdering my people?”

  “We’re not the T’Yun,” shouted the girl. “They have been gone for ages. We’re just the Elk.”

  “Descendants of the T’yun,” said Carlossa. “And this one right here is a T’Yun. From his own mouth.” He pointed at the old man with his axe, then turned back to the girl. “And you will learn to keep your mouth shut.” He reached out and slapped the girl across the face.

  The old man moved quicker than he had expected, leaping up and closing the distance between them almost before Carlossa could react, but the man’s hands were bound, and all he could do is barrel into him, nearly knocking him over. The man kicked out, trying to knock the axe from Carlossa’s hand, but he merely took a step back as the man tumbled forward, tripping, tumbling once more to the ground. He tried to stand again, but only managed to get to his knees as Carlossa stepped forward, his axe raised.

  “This is for my grandparents, Logan Fellwalker. My ancestors, who my mother told me died so that she could escape,” Carlossa said, and he swung the axe down hard. The old man was frail, and thin, with little muscle to stop the cut of the axe. The body fell sideways, and the head—cut clean off—rolled into the bushes nearby.

  The girl screamed but was soon muffled once more as one of the warriors replaced the gag.

  “That’s the chief of the Elk’s daughter,” said another voice.

  Carlossa turned to see the deserter-turned-scout step into the clearing. Loner, that was his name. “What is that you say?”

  “That’s Jonah’s daughter,” Loner repeated, “and that woman is his wife.” Loner pointed at the older woman.

  “Excellent. Bring them with us,” said Carlossa. “I sense that our friends the Elk and their leader are soon to arrive from the south. These will do to stop them in their tracks. Gather as many of the woman and children as you can quickly, and kill the old and the warriors. Bring them quickly. I want a line of them along the clearing over there in the middle of the camp, ready for when our friends arrive. And these two shall be in the middle.”

  He looked to the south, through the camp to the tree line. Shadows were moving far into the woods. The Elk and the warriors of the clans were coming, fresh from their battle on the southern causeway and hopefully tired from running.

  Now, he thought. Now the real battle will come.

  Chapter 50

  How? How did I miss that?

  Jonah’s realization came even as it was happening—it was too easy. Seren’s wolf had definitely saved lives and thinned the ranks of the Cygoa dogs, but that was winning a minor battle while losing the war. Carlossa had head faked. He appeared on the southern causeway to Jonah before disappearing into the woods and most likely heading for the northern one immediately. Jonah had lost fights before, and he would lose fights in the future. But being bested strategically was not something he would ever let happen again.

  He had recognized some of the Elk fleeing into the forest, and others from different clans he did not. It seemed as though the entire camp had decided to run for their lives. He thought of Sasha and the children. Would Carlossa keep them al
ive as leverage? Or had they moved past that? Were the Cygoa flooding the camp with sharpened swords and vengeance that would leave his family and friends bleeding in the dirt? Or had his family also fled? It was all he could hope for.

  “Leave me the fuck behind. I’ll catch up.”

  Jonah looked to his right. Solomon had an arm wrapped around Declan, the two propping up each other as they both limped along through the chaos. For the most part, Elk warriors moved toward the camp although some—mostly men new to the clan—ran for cover. While Jonah had seen Solomon take an arrow to his leg, he had not seen if Declan had been injured. The boy was covered in blood, most of which Jonah assumed belonged to the Cygoa. Behind them, flooding in from the forest and main trail, were hundreds of clan warriors, all baying for the blood of the Cygoa. The battle would take place in the camp—the very last place he had wanted to face the enemy.