Grey Stone

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Grey Stone Page 11

by Jean Knight Pace


  “Go back to sleep,” he called. “It is nothing.”

  The wolves slunk back to their places while Wolrijk stayed up to keep watch.

  When they woke in the morning, Rorof the scout had a paw the size of a small head. “It is badly infected,” Zinder reported to Crespin. “He will have to turn back.”

  “How can that be?” Crespin snapped. “His paw was struck by a tree branch.”

  “It is most unusual,” Zinder replied uneasily. “To be honest, I am not entirely sure he has ever been injured during a hunt.”

  Zinder was interrupted by Wolrijk. “I have instructed the scout to remain here while we move on. A messenger bird has been sent to the kingdom and a healer will come to retrieve him. We need not waste more time waiting.”

  “Waste time?” Zinder retorted. “Our injured are not a waste of our time.”

  “I have sent for a healer,” Wolrijk growled. “What more would you have us do—rock him to sleep?”

  Crespin pounded his staff on the ground so that both wolves snapped to attention. “And who will now lead us in this hunt?” he asked.

  Zinder turned to the king, tucking his paw. “That would be me,” he said. “I am not quite as skilled as Rorof, but very nearly so.”

  The king could not help but notice that Zinder looked nervously to the trees, as though he recognized that it was not mere coincidence and bad luck that had waylaid the lead scout so early in their quest.

  “Very well,” the king replied. “We leave in one quarter of an hour.”

  Chapter 17

  Pietre settled by the fire with the tin of hot hibiscus tea his mother handed him. He had snuck to the mines for the second time that week to be with his father. Each time the trip got faster, but his feet and legs were tired, his back ached, and his eyes hurt from squinting—first from the glaring sunlight of the rock lands, then from the darkness of the tunnels, then from the sun when he came to the surface again. He curled into the ragged chair, almost too tired to sip his tea.

  “Rough day hunting with the dogs?” his mother asked, folding an old blanket.

  He hesitated, not sure what she was talking about until, after a cough from Humphrey, he said, “Oh, yes, very.”

  His mother paused in her folding, but Pietre didn’t notice.

  “Moecka,” he began. “Have you ever seen odd things in the forest?”

  “I don’t know what the forest is if not a collection of odd things.”

  “No,” Pietre said, sitting up just a bit. “I mean really odd. Like—” Pietre stopped speaking and dropped his gaze to his tea.

  Slowly his mother rose with the blanket and a small bundle of clean rags and Pietre continued, “I don’t mean weird plants or oddly shaped trees, but maybe a strange animal or even a ghost or…or…maybe a cat.”

  His mother almost laughed. “’Tis naught but fairy stories,” she said, putting the rags on a shelf.

  “But—” Pietre began again.

  “Have you seen one?” his mother asked, cutting him off.

  “Well, no, but I—”

  “Have a very bold imagination,” his mother cut in.

  She looked into Pietre’s face and he turned away.

  “If you are going to believe such things,” she continued, a hard undertone creeping into her voice, “then you might as well believe in the God of the High White Sun of whom the dogs often speak—the one they believe will free all from Veranderen rule.”

  Pietre had heard some talk of the God of the White Sun. Long ago the White God had given humans and dogs the power to communicate. At least that was how the stories went. And then the God of the Red Sun had risen up pushing his white brother aside. That was all Pietre knew. “Free us?” Pietre asked.

  “Put us on equal standing,” she said.

  “I do not know this tale.”

  “That’s because I haven’t told it for many years.”

  It was true. When he’d been young, his mother had filled their evenings with story after story, but it had been many years since she’d told any of the legends of his childhood. “Tell me, Moecka,” he begged, fingering the rock from his father that sat in a deep corner of his pocket.

  His mother hesitated only a moment before unfolding the blanket and placing it on his lap. “Once,” she began, “at the dawn of time, a bright white light ruled this earth. It gave to us a sky of blue and carried in its power a bone white moon that pulled the waters in when its face came near and released them when it stepped back. Man walked among shifter. Dog and wolf ran in packs over green grasses. All worked side by side to till the earth, plant its bounty, and unmold and re-shape its metals.” His mother paused and glanced toward the small window.

  “But none were happy,” she frowned. “The shifters felt themselves torn between two races—their forms moving from human to wolf at the push and pull, the wax and wane of the glowing white moon. They were then called”—and here Carina only mouthed the word ‘werewolf’—“a term now unspoken by any who wish to keep their necks out of the stocks. The shifters wished for more control, for autonomy from the seasons and tides, for the strength and power such control over their forms would give them.

  “Men felt themselves the weakest among the races—lacking sharp teeth and claws, thick skin and fur. They felt their ‘equal’ duties fell heaviest on their backs. Though expert in tools and invention, they wished for others to lighten their load. They wished it too hard, as they were willing to exchange a measure of freedom for what they hoped would be a measure of ease. The shifters and wolves agreed to carry a heavier load, but only in exchange for free use of the human’s tools and ideas, and only for a tax that they swore would not grow heavy.

  “The dogs’ wish,” she said, nodding at Humphrey, “was the simplest. They wished to run free through the land without thought of others’ mouths to feed. They wished to be absolved from their duties to the other races and felt they could promise, in return, to ask nothing of any either.

  “The wolves wished almost the opposite. They wished for protection. Strong and fierce, the wolves hunted much and often—sometimes without cause. The other races often complained that they took more than their share and did not give sufficient in return. In fact, some wolves were subjected to trials held at the hands of the humans or dogs. They were accused of abusing the balance—killing too freely and too much and leaving too little in the lands. If found guilty these wolves were killed with their families too, and fed to those they’d left hungry in their greed. The wolves wished for an easier way. They wanted only to be fed and harbored, even if it meant life in villages with masters to lead them. In exchange they would gladly use fang and nail to protect and defend whoever was willing to feed and shelter them.

  “A deal was struck. Four representatives, one from each race, were chosen. The human would fashion a stone from pure metals. The shifter would empower that stone with magic that increased as the full moon rose to its place in the sky. Then before the embers of the sun extinguished into night’s blackness, all four would place the stone at the highest point in the land, a point known as ‘Motteral.’ In this way, each would add a touch of his essence to the new world so that each would receive a fair measure of what his race desired.

  “But whether through confusion or intrigue, the human and dog arrived late. Already wolf and shifter had come to the Sacred Tablet and touched the empowered gem, which began to glow red in the night. Quickly, dog and man moved toward it—dog reaching it first. They touched it in an effort to add their essences to it, but things were changing. The shifter was strongest in the moonlight. He fought the human away. The dog fought back, but the wolf struck at his back. Before long, a battle had ensued. Relatives and friends from each race were called to the great hill. Through an unspoken alliance, dog and man fought shifter and wolf. Blood and gore were spilled as they had never been before and never have been since. But all was already lost.

  “A new sun rose—red as the bloodied hill of battle. The great race of Verander
en was born. Shifters could now change form at will, resist injury or disease, and their lives lasted centuries and longer. They rose quickly in dominance. Their alliance to the wolves held fast. Even the dogs were allowed a measure of freedom as long as they obeyed Veranderen law and stayed out of their way. But the humans, now the weakest of the races, began to be repressed, misused, and heavily taxed.” His mother paused, folding her hands in her lap.

  “The humans maintained a small victory. For the Sourcestone had been created at their hands. While it caused the Veranderen to rise in power, it also saturated the hill with Grey that seeped slowly into the ground, like roots, extending deep into what are now the Grey mines.”

  Pietre no longer felt sleepy and had abandoned his tea. Even Humphrey lifted his head, both ears upright.

  “It is said,” Carina concluded, “that when two are found—one as strong and one as pure as the gemstone of that lost age, that the fate of the sun can be reversed and the face of the White Sun will shine again. Though dog and man will speak no more.”

  Humphrey sat up. “Come again,” he said.

  Carina smiled. “’Tis naught but a tale,” she said, stroking his fur.

  “You tell it too well,” Humphrey said, settling down uneasily.

  “A great compliment from a noble hound such as yourself,” she replied.

  “But Moecka,” Pietre asked interrupting. “Could it really be so—could such a gift as speech be lost? And why?”

  “I suppose if it was given it could be taken,” his mother said, tucking the blanket firmly around his legs. “But it is just a tale, youngling. And one I apparently should not have told.”

  “But if it was true?” Pietre asked.

  “Well, perhaps a mutual language would no longer be needed if there was a dawn of equality,” she said, although she could see that Pietre looked unconvinced. “I have heard it told that some of the dogs believe it to be a sacrifice; a test to see if they will keep their creed. And I suppose one gift might need to be exchanged for others. Just like the bitter greens must be boiled with sweet meats for balanced soup.”

  “But that would be terrible,” Pietre said, stroking Humphrey’s undercoat and lying down beside him.

  “Terrible on one count,” his mother responded, touching Humphrey’s nose gently. “But wonderful on other counts. Imagine a world where man and wolf walked an equal path—no Blødguard, no taxes…no slaves.” She gave Humphrey and Pietre one final embrace and stood to leave. “No matter what the color the sun might come to, I’ve never known life to be anything other than terrible and wonderful wound together in different ways.” At that she placed a hand on her forehead where Jager had last touched it. “Language is more than words. I don’t believe dog and man could ever lose their ability to speak to one another, even if speech no longer came in the way we know.”

  She looked out their small window into the darkness. Pietre pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, covering his ears to keep out the sounds of the Blødguard, and draping part of it over Humphrey.

  As his mother turned to leave, she murmured to herself, “But you needn’t worry about white suns and lost languages. In the story two great ones are needed to change the skies.” She lifted the candle and held it in front of her face. “And great ones, sleeping child, are rare in the best of times and especially scarce in these.” She spoke softly to herself. “Any great ones who dare to exist are taken or lashed with burdens so heavy that changing the color of the dawn is as far from their minds as the fairy stories of their childhoods.” With that she extinguished the candle and walked from the room.

  Perhaps she thought that Pietre, with his blanket tucked ears, would not hear her. Indeed, as he turned his face into Humphrey’s soft back, he didn’t seem to hear. Yet like so many boys for so many centuries past, he did hear, and when he fell into sleep, it was with dreams of great ones and imaginings about where such a person might be found.

  Chapter 18

  Crespin looked grim. For several days their hunt had led them around in convoluted circles. And now that he felt they drew near to the girl, two of his wolves had fallen within hours of each other—one with fits of vomiting so severe that even Wolrijk had seemed concerned; the other cut in the face by a branch, which would have been nothing except that within the hour an oozing rash had broken out along the wound. The afflicted wolves had been left to await help.

  The rest of the party stood at the edge of the dogs’ territory. It would not normally pose a problem to travel through peacefully, but the day had been bewitched and even in the best circumstances, dogs and wolves were not great friends. Yet to go around would mean an extra day’s travel. Crespin pressed forward.

  The woods the dogs called their home were thick and lush. Herbs and flowers lined the path while trees as tall as the sky itself, and wider than three Veranderen, seemed to reach up at every turn. The wolves ran quickly and were almost through when one named Dorak stumbled on a ragged root, howling in pain. His companion Gog tried to help him up, pulling a splinter from the wound with his mouth.

  Crespin turned on the pack, facing Wolrijk and screamed, “Have you assembled a company of clowns? Am I to believe luck is so moved against us as to trip every devil of a wolf you have brought to me? Is this the best your race can afford?”

  For just a breath of an instant, Wolrijk bared his upper teeth, but the white wolf Zinder stepped forward. “It is different than luck, good king. I sense evil among the trees and at each ill event I smell odors unnatural for this vegetation.”

  As if to demonstrate, Dorak let out a yowl and Gog groaned.

  “So this root has jumped forward to poison the wolf who now howls at my feet in pain while this other wolf whines with some sort of sympathy suffering.”

  Crespin and Zinder looked at the wolves—Dorak’s breathing was labored and Gog’s eyes seemed to have dilated, which was odd. Zinder opened his mouth to respond when the sounds of branches breaking stopped him. The diminished party of wolves looked up to see that they were ringed by a pack of broad-chested dogs.

  “I suppose they’re poisonous too,” Crespin hissed.

  “My lord,” the head dog said, tucking a paw. “What brings you to our quarter of your great land?”

  The king stepped forward in the formal way of the dogs. “Today, good dog, we travel forth on the urgent business of our kingdom. Pray let us pass quickly, as one has just become injured on this path.”

  The head dog raised two hairy eyebrows and was about to stand down when, without warning, Gog sprang upon one of the dogs, attacking.

  Both sides were so stunned that for a moment none moved except the attacked and the attacker. In a moment, however, the dogs let forth a war cry and leaped at the wolves.

  The injured wolf Dorak was quickly tossed out of the way with a cut to his face and back.

  Two dogs attacked the wolf Gog who now foamed at the mouth, uttering nonsensical curses as he tried to claw at his opponents. One of the dogs took off a chunk of his ear, while the other bit at his neck before the attacked dog—a sentinel named Silva—threw him back, cutting his belly, so that it nearly tore open. Gog moaned, still foaming, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  The dogs flew to the aid of their brothers who were fighting the remaining two wolves. Wolrijk dealt a blow to the head dog’s face, which drew blood, but did not run deep. The head dog moved to the side and advanced again, now joined by Silva.

  Zinder spoke softly, but in a threatening whisper as two dogs circled him, snapping at his heels. He jumped forward to a nearby tree, which shuddered above him though there was no wind. Zinder nearly choked on his breath and ran back towards the dogs, barreling into one so hard the dog was knocked to the ground where he lay gasping.

  The king raised his staff and hit it against the ground with such force that a shallow vein of earth opened at his feet and the dogs and wolves paused in their struggle.

  “Enough,” Crespin said, the bauble atop his staff glowing with heat. The wo
lves fell back and the dogs stood, growling, until their leader stepped forward. “Is this part of your urgent business, King Crespin? A surprise attack on an innocent dog?”

  Crespin’s staff glowed red as blood. His words were soft and measured. “The wolf is mad, and had you waited in your attack you would have had your due retribution. As it is, you have had your revenge and we will, for now, consider it an even trade.” The king moved close to the head dog, breathing heavily and drawing himself up to his full height. “You, however, would do well to remember that I am king and this is my domain. The dogs are not above my rule. I will move among my land as I wish. Is that understood?”

  The head dog tucked his paw, nodding. But as the wound from his face dripped blood onto his upper lip and teeth, he looked anything but meek. “I am Markhi, good king. It is a name that I pray your lordship will deign to remember the next time we have the honor of meeting upon this terrain.”

  The king turned without responding, leaving dogs and wolves behind. Wolrijk moved to retrieve Gog, but found the wolf could not walk. Wolrijk growled low, scowling at the pack of dogs and then at the crazed wolf. Markhi nodded to Silva, who went to Gog’s side. Using their shoulders, Markhi and Silva crouched low, lifting the insane wolf up enough to drape him unceremoniously onto Wolrijk’s back. Wolrijk left without another look to find his master. Zinder pushed Dorak to his feet and helped him back to the path. But before leaving, Zinder turned to the head dog, looked him in the eye, and quietly tucked his paw. Markhi nodded back and said shortly, “The herb willowmeier will help to stop the flow of blood.”

  Once in the clearing King Crespin commanded, “Zinder, you stay with these two. Await help. Wolrijk, you will continue with me alone; as it should have been in the first place.”

  “But my king,” Zinder said, standing before his lord and bowing low. “All is not well. All is not normal. The trees shudder when there is no wind. The earth and branches bleed poison into your most loyal subjects. The wolf Gog seems to have been crazed merely by extracting the splinter that debilitated Dorak. Will you now continue in this mad quest for a creature of whom you know so little?”

 

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