Dustfall, Book Two - The Parting of Ways

by J. Thorn

  “Entire buildings,” the man interrupted.

  Jonah looked past the man to Eliz, and he could have sworn one less ruin stood beneath the stormy sky. He turned to see Elk warriors behind him, their weapons raised and fear smeared across their faces.

  “Lower your weapons,” Jonah said. He turned back to the man. “This is the Elk. I am Jonah.”

  “You have no right to my name,” the man said, although Jonah sensed the edge had left the man’s voice.

  “We are leaving soon. You are welcome to the plains.”

  The man turned to face his warriors. At least a hundred men stopped when the man gave them two series of flustered hand signals. Jonah noted the long faces of so many now deprived of their bloodlust.

  “You’ve spent the cold season?”

  “Yes,” Jonah said. “But now, I am not sure what we will do.”

  “You won’t stay,” the Nikkt leader said with a tone that implied it was a statement and not a question.

  “My scouts tell me that the earth has split in many places. Roads and paths we once used are worthless.”

  Rav grunted, as if to confirm what Jonah said. Jonah smiled at the man before turning back to face the Nikkt leader.

  The nameless leader turned to his men. “Flank the camp and check the northern plains. Weapons down but at the ready.”

  The Nikkt warband dispersed. Some men waved their weapons at the Elk, while others sat down in the dirt to watch. Jonah looked into their eyes, noting that many stared back and through him.

  “We are also a large clan,” Jonah said, hoping the man would understand the warning there.

  “You are,” said the man.

  Jonah shifted to one leg, tossing a quick glance to where Gunney, Solomon, Rav and Ghafir had gathered. They spoke to each other, telling jokes and laughing, but their eyes never left Jonah and the Nikkt leader.

  “Do you have fire water?” the man asked Jonah.

  “At my tent.”

  Jonah nodded at his Right Hands as he walked past and toward the center of camp. The Nikkt warriors moved around outside the camp but did not try to enter. The leader followed Jonah, who waved a hand at Sasha, telling her to leave them to talk.

  “We’re heading west. And north. I was not entirely sure we would remain at Eliz, and now I know we cannot. I will gather the clans soon and go.”

  Jonah’s admission seemed to calm the Nikkt leader. He took a tobacco pouch from beneath his garments, packed a pipe and handed it to Jonah. “There are several clans wishing to leave Eliz. Small hunter clans. I will send them to you tomorrow.”

  Jonah nodded with gratitude, although he was not entirely sure the man deserved his thanks. “Why?”

  “They can help you. Probably thirty hunters—strong, good men. I see you’ve gathered many others during the winter.”

  Jonah scanned the horizon, noticing Ghafir chatting with a Nikkt warrior. The scene reminded Jonah that this was not his native land, and yet, the Elk numbers had grown. They might continue to grow.

  “You did not attack us as you fled the ruins. I was expecting trouble.”

  The Nikkt leader looked at Jonah and smiled, exhaling blue smoke with a slow, steady breath.

  “We are not fleeing,” he said, suppressing a slight chuckle. “Tis another Cycle, is all.”

  Jonah turned his head sideways and furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe some call them ‘grumbles.’ Yes, those are part of the Cycle. And she is just beginning again.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jonah said.

  “No, you don’t. And your death won’t bloody my hands, so I’ll explain it to you.”

  Chapter 47

  Seren trudged up the hill through the snow, heading toward the old house concealed in the forest. The deer that she and Sorcha had caught was heavy.

  This is a big one, she thought. Much bigger than the last. That one had kept them going for over two weeks after she had cooked and stored meat in packed snow. The house’s cellar was still intact, and it was freezing cold under the ground, even when she lit a roaring fire in the only remaining room, above, on ground level. The cellar was perfect for storing food and keeping it safely away from any wandering animals that lived in the woods.

  Seren shifted the weight of the large branch that she had tied the deer to from her left shoulder to her right, and then leaned forward, pulling hard as she headed up the slope until she reached the flat area of ground surrounding the house.

  Sorcha, the wolf, was like an orbiting moon, dancing and playing in the snow, circling around Seren as they made their way back. The wolf was still young, though no longer a cub. Seren had noticed that during the weeks they had stayed in the house, gradually accepting each other and then becoming friends, that Sorcha was growing, rapidly.

  Lots of deer meat, she thought.

  They reached the house and Sorcha ambled over to the front door, where an overhang protected the entrance and kept it clear of snow. The young wolf sat and watched Seren first retrieve her knife and then begin to skin the deer.

  This was the bit Seren didn’t like—the messy part. It made her stomach churn, but it was necessary, and she had done it many times after her father died. It was something she had grown used to.

  We were lucky, she thought. She was lucky. They had found this house in the worst of the weather, and even if it was almost crumbling, the downstairs room—what would have been a living room—was still protected from the elements, and when she lit a fire in the hearth it warmed up quickly. Luckily, there was an abundance of wood.

  Seren had found an old and rusty axe in the house, which was still good to use, and she cut down or collected thick branches and smaller trees over the weeks and stored them in the back of the room in a pile so that they could dry.

  Seren looked up from the task of skinning the deer and sighed. She liked her cabin in the woods, and given time, she thought she could repair some of the crumbling bits, even though she was no skilled builder. She would miss it.

  You can’t stay here forever, she thought, as she hung the skin of the deer on a wooden post at the back of the house. The skin would weather there, and in a few days she could dry it, scrape it clean, and wash it in the river. For now, and until she left the house in the woods, it would hang with the other four skins that decorated the walls of her temporary home.

  The ground was wetter than usual, and Seren noticed dripping water running down the back of the house. It wasn’t something that she’d thought about over the weeks she had stayed there. She had grown accustomed to her life in the forest, and she wasn’t alone. She had Sorcha, her new and unexpected friend.

  The snow is thawing, she thought. Soon spring would come, and she would make her way back to Wytheville to wait for the return of the Elk and the other clans. Maybe even her brother, Roke, would return with Gaston and the others. Maybe they would realize—or have come to learn of—the foolishness of traveling south. She hoped they would. She hoped that Roke was okay.

  She looked across the clearing at the excited wolf. But what of her? she thought. What of her precious Sorcha? Could she really go back to the Elk with a wolf? What if they didn’t allow the wolf to travel with them? Seren knew whom she would choose if forced to. Sorcha was her family now.

  Sorcha barked and trotted over to where Seren kneeled by the deer. Seren realized that she had been staring into open space, not doing what needed to be done. The wolf sniffed the deer, and kicked up some of the snow, then bounded off toward the woods, before skidding, nearly falling over, and running back toward Seren.

  She grinned. The wolf was playful. She had never had a dog. They were a rarity, and those few she had encountered were wild and dangerous, but she had seen people who owned dogs in Wytheville, and in Eliz, and also among the hunter clans, and now she understood why people chose to keep such companions. But a wolf? She had not tamed Sorcha, merely left food out for her, and she hadn’t done it to make friends initially, just to keep
the wolf from attacking her. But the more she left food out, the closer she got to the wolf until they could sit together and eat. Then, one very cold night, she found Sorcha sleeping near the outside door, trying to find warmth from the fire inside, and she had let her in.

  How things change in such a short time, she thought.

  Sorcha almost crashed into her as the wolf bolted back toward the house. She wanted to play but was probably also hungry.

  “Okay! Okay!” Seren said, and she hoisted the carcass of the deer up on the long branch of wood that she’d carried it on. She leaned the branch against the side of the house and tied the attached ropes that hung from it to the rafter that stuck out from the wall.

  In an hour or so, she could take it down, and cook it, and then they would feast. But for now… Sorcha bolted off once more across the flat ground, and Seren bent down, grabbed two handfuls of snow and squashed them into a ball.

  “Okay, you asked for it,” she said.

  Chapter 48

  The large, metal door that led into the chamber swung open and slammed into the wall, metal hinges screeching in protest. A gust of wind swept into the room, and a tall figure paced through the entrance. It was dimly lit; the few torches hanging from alcoves along two of the walls cast eerie shadows across the floor.

  A dozen figures were gathered in the center of the room, most of them with their heads bowed, but one of the number, a man half a foot shorter than the rest, turned to see Morlan, leader of the Cygoa, enter the room. Genris, witch doctor to the Cygoa, and master of the Coven, smiled as the tall leader approached the group.

  “The rumbling in the hills.” Morlan spoke with no introduction and no niceties. “What causes it?”

  There was silence among the Coven, but then Genris nodded, turned, and walked over to a raised dais in the center of the large chamber. Morlan squinted, struggling to focus in the dim light. There were no windows in the chamber that Genris had chosen for his coven, and this unnerved Morlan. Why they would not wish daylight? It made no sense to him, but the Coven preferred darkness to daylight.

  Genris stopped at the dais and leaned over the object that lay there. Morlan couldn’t make out what it was, though he saw bleached white bones and fur among the pile.

  An animal, he thought, and a wasted one at that. The Coven had practices that made his stomach churn, but waste of food was inexcusable. Morlan didn’t know what the creature had once been, and he preferred to keep it that way.

  Genris lifted his arm and poked the remains of the dead thing with the stick he normally used to assist him with walking. The man was deep in thought, and Morlan began to feel impatience creeping in. He was about to speak again when Genris raised his hand to command silence. Morlan felt his cheeks flush, and he was relieved that none of his men were in the room.

  Old man, he thought. I would love to bash in your skull. No one commands me. But they did, didn’t they? The Coven held sway over all of the Cygoa by fear and superstition, and because of that they held him too. He believed little in their foolish and old-fashioned, narrow-minded ways—sacrificing animals, chanting rituals. Nonsense, all of it.

  Genris turned and walked away from the carcass, once more smiling at him with that slimy, weasel grin. “It is a sign,” he said.

  A sign. Everything was a sign. Morlan cursed in his mind. “What do you mean, a sign?”

  Genris frowned and turned away from the tall leader, walking toward one of the walls where the torchlight was brighter. He spread his arms. “It is time for us to travel south, to the land that was promised!” The witch doctor gestured forward with his hands.

  Morlan shook his head. If only the old fool knew that he was gesturing north, he thought. Unfortunately, the man is an imbecile.

  “Take heed,” Genris continued. “The promised land is in the south, as we foretold. We have stayed here, as you wished, for our people to survive the winter. But now we must continue on. We must head farther south, as was foretold, to the land that is always green.”

  Morlan shifted, annoyed. “What’s wrong with these lands? The forests are free of blight, and this town is fortified, built for us already. The lands around will provide well for us when the winter has passed. Healthy forests. Not like those from the north.” He turned his back to the Coven, looking out of the double doors. “The mountain streams are clean, unlike the lakes. What is wrong with this land?”

  Genris walked to stand next to him. “This is not the promised land,” he said, his expression incredulous, as though Morlan were stupid.

  One day, thought Morlan. One day that smile will leave your face. But he would have to wait. He would have to somehow discredit this coven before he could remove them. They had been there long before he was born—centuries, probably forever—and so, for now, he would humor them and listen to their bleats. For now, he would follow their whims, but he would not continue south so easily.

  “I will send a scout party,” he said. “They will search for these green lands.”

  The witch doctor shook his head. “You have such little faith,” he said.

  “I have our people to watch over,” Morlan said. “I need more than your babble to convince me.”

  “And you don’t think that we watch over the people?” Genris asked. “You don’t think that their lives are important to us?”

  Morlan stopped himself from saying what he really thought. “Of course you do,” he said, smiling “I will see to it that scouts are sent.”

  Genris was about to speak again, but Morlan turned and paced from the room. The tall leader heard a sigh from the old man as he left without closing the door.

  Morlan paced down the main walkway through the fortress that had once held the Five Clans of Wytheville. He wondered what kind of resistance he would face when the clans who lived here returned. If they even came back. His scouts brought him much information. The clans left these lands every year and then returned when the weather was warmer, and that was a concern for him. But he would face that as it came. For now, it was time to placate the Coven.

  He continued down the walkway and spotted Carlossa, his lieutenant, waiting at the end of the corridor. Morlan signaled him closer.

  “Any news?” Carlossa asked.

  “Not much,” said Morlan. “They are about as useful as rat shit. Ask a simple question and you are given riddles and nonsense.”

  “I see,” said Carlossa. “I have sent scouts to the mountains, and further east, to speak to our brothers who hunt in the forests. There are enough of us spread across the east and the mountains to at least have some idea of what is happening out there.”

  “Good move,” Morlan said. “But now we also have to look to the south, to the tainted lands.”

  “I thought…” Carlossa began.

  “Yes,” said Morlan. “Yes, I know. Why travel through the tainted lands when these lands are perfectly good? I agree. But that is what they,” Morlan gestured toward the doors, and the chamber behind that, with a thumb, “insist. It’s time to go south.”

  Carlossa nodded his understanding. “So we send scouts south,” he said. “I can see to that.”

  “Do it,” said Morlan. “But tell them to be wary of the taint and to report back. They are not to cross the grey, tainted lands. I’ll not lose a full warband for the whim of some old bastards.”

  Carlossa nodded, turned, and left in a hurry.

  Morlan sighed deeply. He hoped that the warband Carlossa sent south would be led by someone sensible enough to know the signs and not lead their brothers into death. He also wondered about one who had travelled ahead of the Cygoa, the one the Coven said was their prophet. Had he taken the route south as promised? Was he already there, waiting for them in this so-called Green Land? Well, maybe we'll find out, Morlan thought. Or we’ll find his corpse.

  Chapter 49

  “The Old Ones say it began after The End. Those memories and times have faded but that’s what they all say.”

  Jonah stared through the flames of t
he campfire and into the Nikkt leader’s face. The man had still not offered his name, and Jonah didn’t ask for it again. The rest of the Nikkt warriors, and the other clans escaping the problem in the ruins, had set up their own camps on the east side of the plain. It seemed as though none of the Nikkt wanted to return to Eliz.

  “Grumbles?” Jonah asked.

  “One of many things,” said the man. “The ghosts of the ancients still inhabit the ruins. Any of my men will tell you that. The shaking ground beneath our feet? Ghosts, too.”

  Jonah was used to the folklore shared around the fire. The Elk told their own destruction stories about how the old ways ended. None of those tales ever quite explained the world as it was now, and Jonah hated that. The past sat like a dull pain in a part of his mind he could not ignore.

  “The spirits are unhappy?”

  “Yes, Elk Chief. But there is more. The spirits are restless. The men of long ago days built entire camps beneath the surface, burrowing deep into the bowels of earth-mother. They dug long tunnels extending to different parts of the ruins, each one with a series of carts that would transport people through them.”

  Jonah closed his eyes and tried to imagine what that might look like, but the reality of such transportation was beyond his comprehension.

  “I can see that,” he said, although he could not.

  “The carts ran by themselves. No horses—no teams to pull them. The tunnels ran beneath Eliz, crisscrossing and intersecting in various places. We know because we’ve been in some. At least we were until we discovered what else was inside of them.”

  “What?” Jonah asked.

  “Valks. The creatures of the darkness. Once we breached the sealed tunnels and got inside, it let them out. And now, when they’re angry, they shake the tunnels and bring down ruins.”

  The man stopped, as if that explained everything. Jonah’s mind could not grapple with the idea. He wanted to ask so many questions and yet his tongue felt wooden, tacked to the top of his mouth.