by Martin Frowd
“And you could not strike the outlander down in return, Wanderer?” Zorgh snorted. “You could have summoned up a storm and called down lightning upon him, or earthfast him – I assume his feet were touching the ground? – to bind him in place, then taken bear form and torn his head off – or cat form and torn out his throat, if such is your preferred aspect. Instead, you let him get away?”
“Regrettably, Master,” Ryvyth winced under the Druid Master’s continuing hostility, “my Weather-Gift is not strong. I can call a light breeze, or calm breezy winds, but storms and lightning are still beyond me. The outlander’s protections were formidable enough to deny an earthfast attempt, for my Earth-Gift was not strong enough to overwhelm his defences. And my Animal-Gift is not very well suited for combat either. With little that would overcome the outlander’s protections, I thought it best to focus on healing those who needed aid rather than throw more lives away trying to stop him.”
“You are weak in the Weather-Gift. Weak in the Earth-Gift. Weak in the Animal-Gift too.” Zorgh frowned. “How is it, Wanderer Ryvyth, that you ever advanced past Acolyte at all? Was it an especially bad year?”
“My Healing-Gift, Master. It is the strongest of my Gifts,” Ryvyth explained to the higher-ranking Druid, wincing at his superior’s continuing hostility, “and I have used it extensively, these past few days, together with my herb lore. My Abjuring and Sensing Gifts are fair also. But Healing is my strongest Gift.”
“Laudable, I suppose, Wanderer Ryvyth,” the Druid Master’s gaze bored into him, “the People need their hunters whole and able-bodied, for a cripple is a useless burden on his clan. But,” his voice turned glacial, “the delay in reporting the encounter is a serious matter, Wanderer. It is a most serious matter indeed. Your message said that the sorry affair took place at noon, three days ago now, yet the message-imprint was clearly not dispatched until midnight, a twelve-hour later! Because of your delay to heal a few dozen, before reporting this calamity, many thousands might now be at risk with an abomination and an outlander death mage on the loose. Explain yourself.”
“The cursed outlander’s parting shot, Master, was to imprison us all in a dome of sorcerous bones, called up from the earth itself! The bones resisted all attempts, both mystical and muscular, to bend or break, and were too tightly interwoven to escape. I had to wait until a bird flew close enough that I could call it down and imprint my message on it. Unfortunately, that was not until midnight, for my range is limited. In the meantime, I occupied myself with such healing as I could provide to the hunters. When the outlander’s bone dome finally sank back into the earth and we were at last able to step free, the sun was rising again, and the outlander and the abomination had too long a head start for such hunters as remained fit to pursue them.”
“And so, this outlander remains at large? The Archdruid is displeased, Ryvyth. Most displeased,” Master Zorgh’s glare was undimmed in its intensity.
“Respectfully, Master Zorgh, I have explained what transpired,” Ryvyth protested. “I sent messages as swiftly as I could, both to Hellgate Keep and ahead of the outlander, in the hope that our brethren with the Dusk Hunters could intercept him. The Dusk Hunter clan is significantly larger, you see, Master. They have a constant Druid presence, where the Duskwalkers were deemed too small for anything more than regular visits as part of a roving circuit. Had it been otherwise, had this clan had a Druid in permanent residence, I am sure the boy’s Gift would have been exposed years ago, before it was too late. He could have been taken for training by the Order while his Gift was more easily managed, and before his head was filled with heresy, and his heretic parents could have been quietly slain once he was safely gone to the Keep.”
“So, now you think yourself better equipped to decide policy than the Conclave?” Druid Master Zorgh frowned. “You may have your wish yet, Ryvyth. I am sorely tempted to recommend that you be assigned to this clan permanently to atone for your failure in this matter, and to keep your incompetence from spreading! Either that, or that you be assigned to the Fleshtearers, to spend the rest of your life on the border fighting the southern infidels, without relief or hope of reassignment – but, given your lack of anything resembling real battle prowess, you would only be a liability to your brethren in combat,” he snorted. “In the meantime, I suppose we had best speak with the chief of this clan. I assume he is at least expecting us?”
“Of course, Master Zorgh. He waits at the clan’s camp – I thought it best, when I received the bird-imprinted message that came ahead of you, if I greeted and briefed my Druid brethren first. If it suits you to follow me, I shall take you to him at once,” Ryvyth offered cautiously, still smarting at the rebuke.
“Very well, Wanderer Ryvyth. I suppose even you cannot get that wrong,” sighed the senior Druid. Wanderer Rhobyth, who still had not spoken a word, fell in behind his Master, and both Druids of the Watch followed Ryvyth as he led the way from the execution ground.
◆◆◆
Druid Master Zorgh’s keen gaze missed nothing on the short walk from the execution ground to the camp nearby where the Duskwalker clan of the People of the Bear had their yurts. Several times along the way, the three robed Druids passed Duskwalker hunters, clearly on guard, spears at the ready. Zorgh did not miss the respect, bordering on reverence, with which the hunters saluted Ryvyth, nor the caution in their eyes as they saluted him and Rhobyth in turn. He glanced at his silent companion, and the answering blink from Rhobyth told him as clearly as if he had spoken aloud that the younger Druid of the Watch had seen the same thing.
As they arrived at the camp, Zorgh saw that what must have been all the rest of the Duskwalker clan, a few hundred strong, were drawn up in rows, every head facing their way. Men, women and children, all bowed in unison as the three Druids strode into the camp. Inspecting the scene, Zorgh marked many hunters with bloodstained bandages, splinted limbs and other obvious signs of recent wounds. Many leaned on their spears, using them as makeshift crutches as much as weapons. Others, while neither bandaged nor splinted, had a stiffness to their movements that spoke just as clearly of recent injuries.
Standing at the head of the clan, bowing respectfully to the three approaching Druids, was an older man, his hair and moustache white as the winter snows, his face scored with several thin scars from old fights and lined with age and stress. Zorgh snorted inwardly at the notion of old; this man, undoubtedly the clan chief, was probably a score of years younger than Zorgh himself, but the Druid Master looked the younger by a dozen or so years. It was a hard life on the plains, and the Twelve Tribes of the People had no recourse to the Druid magics that held both death and aging at bay.
“Master, allow me to present to you Chief Zovyth of the Duskwalker clan,” Ryvyth made the introductions, confirming Zorgh’s assumption. “Chief Zovyth, you stand in the presence of Druid Master Zorgh, and Druid Wanderer Rhobyth. Both are come to us directly from the Keep itself, in answer to the message that I sent, and serve on the Watch.”
“Master, you honour us with your presence,” the old chief bowed low to Zorgh, and again to his silent shadow Rhobyth. “Duskwalker clan is weakened by our recent ill fortune but stands ready to serve your will.”
“Chief Zovyth,” Zorgh nodded in acknowledgement. “Dismiss your people, chief. We should speak more privately.”
“Of course, Master,” the chief agreed, waving to the assembled folk of the clan to disperse. “I offer you the hospitality of my yurt, Master, Druids, though it is but humble beside the great Keep.” He clicked his fingers at an attractive young woman, eighteen or perhaps nineteen summers if Zorgh had to hazard a guess. “Woman! Refreshments for the great Druids! They have come far!”
“Young for a chief’s woman,” Zorgh observed in an undertone to Ryvyth, as all three Druids followed the white-haired old chief into the largest yurt in the camp. “Tall, too, for a female.” Ryvyth, the tallest of the three, ducked his head slightly to pass into the yurt. Zorgh and Rhobyth, like the grizzled chief,
had no need to duck.
“That is Zarna,” Ryvyth responded. “She was the chief’s eldest son’s woman, while he yet lived.”
“She was not put on his funeral pyre with him? Most unusual, Ryvyth.”
“It was an unusual death, Master. Since the chief’s son met his end by shadowfire, there was little point in burning him again. His soul had already been burned out, so incinerating his remains would not free it to fly on the winds to the Dark King’s embrace, and so he needed no souls to fly with him and serve him in the afterlife. Chief Zovyth therefore exercised his right as chief to reprieve his son’s woman and take her as his own – his remaining sons are still boys, not yet ready for a woman of their own. The mother of his sons died a few years ago, birthing his last one. This one is young and fit enough to give him more.”
“She is wilful, but she will be broken in soon enough,” Zovyth smirked. “Her tongue is still a little daring – my son allowed her to speak her mind too much, I think – but such a face, and a body to match! Only a man of stone could ignore it, yes?” The chief stopped, as if belatedly remembering that his Druid guests were sworn to celibacy. “In any case, she has good childbearing hips,” he finished a little more lamely. “And she is a lasting reminder of my murdered son, taken far too soon from us.”
The flap of the yurt rippled as the young woman of whom they spoke entered, bearing a tray of stiff hide with four tall horn beakers, which she carefully set down on an ancient-looking iron chest before backing away out of the yurt, her eyes trained on the ground the whole time. Chief Zovyth smiled expansively, gesturing to the drinks set out before them.
“Revered Master and Druids, please accept our humble refreshments,” the chief bowed his head. He carefully unfolded a single chair, cloth stretched over wooden slats, and set it against an internal partition wall of animal hide that separated the yurt’s sleeping area from the daytime area. “Master, if it please you to sit?” The chief himself slowly, stiffly, knelt on one of several fur rugs strewn across the hide floor of the yurt, facing the chair. Master Zorgh took the offered chair, while the two Druid Wanderers took another rug each and knelt in like fashion to their host. The quartet formed a circle, the two younger Druids facing each other while Zorgh faced the chief. With all seated, the chief served the drinks from the tray, first offering a beaker to Master Zorgh, then to each of the Wanderers, taking the last one for himself.
“Forgive us, Master, for the state in which you find us,” Zovyth said as he took a long sip from his beaker, wiping froth from his lips. “You saw that many of my men are still recovering from their wounds – wounds caused by outlander magic, so who can say how long they might take to heal! Several more are lost, my eldest son among them,” he patted his white moustache ruefully. “My hair was grey as iron just a few days ago. It is a terrible thing, for a man – especially for a chief – to outlive a son grown to manhood.
“Praise be, that Druid Ryvyth here uncovered the heretics when he did,” the chief continued. “Our own chief hunter, and his woman! None would ever have thought it, that he could betray our People and our Dark King, let alone that the boy would turn out to be hiding dangerous magics. If Druid Ryvyth had not been here when the heretics were exposed, we might have lost many more. His holy magics have restored many of our hunters who were most grievously hurt, and his skills in healing and herb lore have helped more. Truly, the Order was wise in sending him when they did. I do hope, Master, that his quick wits and wisdom find favour with you also, and that you will speak well of him to the Exalted Archdruid when you return to the thrice-blessed Keep.”
“You may be assured that Druid Ryvyth’s actions will be reported in full to the Archdruid,” Zorgh agreed, with the small satisfaction of watching Ryvyth’s face go pale for a moment before recovering its colour. The chief did not seem to have noticed the ambiguity in Zorgh’s promise, and neither he nor the errant Ryvyth seemed to have caught that he had carefully not clarified exactly which of the twelve Archdruids would receive his report. Let both Zovyth and Ryvyth believe it would be the Archdruid of the Bear, if they would, even if one interpreted Zorgh’s intention as praise and the other knew it to be censure. Zorgh’s loyalties were elsewhere, and the only way the Archdruid of the Bear would hear one word of this from his lips would be if his own Archdruid, he of the Wolf, ordered Zorgh to speak of it.
Zorgh sipped at his horn beaker, and his two fellow Druids copied him. The fermented pony’s milk it contained was potent, but a Druid was not an ordinary man, and his body absorbed alcohol just as it would any other toxin.
“I have not yet sent word to my chieftain, Master Zorgh,” the chief added. “I should do so soon, to let him know how matters stand with my clan. For we are weakened, for the moment, and would be able to send few hunters should my chieftain call for a muster.”
Zorgh kept a calm, almost serene expression on his face, though inside he was relieved. If this idiotic clan chief, who saw the incompetent Ryvyth’s failure as heroism, had sent word to the Chieftain of the People of the Bear before Zorgh’s arrival, it was all too possible that the Chieftain would have sent his own report to the Archdruid of the Bear. If it came as a message-imprint carried by a bird, sent by one of the Bear Chieftain’s Druids-in-residence, well and good, the Watch could still intercept it per the orders Zorgh had circulated before he left the Keep, as his own Archdruid had commanded. But if the Chieftain of the Bear instead sent riders of his own to the Keep, or worse, took it into his head to ride there in person to give report to his Archdruid, there would be no keeping a lid on this matter, and his own Archdruid would be displeased.
“I have already sent out riders to all the other nearby clans, Master,” Chief Zovyth continued, compounding his offence if he only knew it, “to warn them of the thrice damned outlander death mage, and the boy. They were heading west, into the Hills of Dusk, but it might have been a crafty ruse to make us think that was their heading; they might have planned to swing north or south, and more clans of the People might have been at risk. And if west was truly their aim, why, warning the other clans meant more hunters could join in the search. Under the command of your fellow Druids, of course, Master. The hills span hundreds of miles, after all, and no man lives within them – although the People do hunt in them, of course – so the more men could be set on their trail, the more likely the accursed pair are to be found. Beyond the Hills of Dusk is nothing, of course.”
“Not entirely true,” Druid Wanderer Rhobyth spoke at last. Zorgh turned to regard his aide, who inclined his head in respect to the Master. “Perhaps the chief meant to say that the hills mark the edge of the land, Master? Beyond the Hills of Dusk is the Bay of Dusk, and within it the Isle of Crows,” the younger Druid elucidated. “And beyond that, the open sea, which any outlander must cross to return to whatever cursed land spawned them. I would guess, Master, that this outlander necromancer must have a ship waiting somewhere out there, to take him and the boy far away.”
“You know the Isle of Crows, Druid Rhobyth?” the chief asked carefully.
“Only through histories,” Rhobyth shook his head. “I have studied all the lands of the Twelve Tribes of the People, but I have never been there.”
“The Isle of Crows is a cursed place,” Chief Zovyth said. “No man who goes there ever leaves! My father told me, as his father told him, and his father beyond him, since time beyond telling, of the hunters who have braved its shore and are never seen again. To this day, still hunters go there to test themselves, so they say, but none ever return to speak of what they have seen and done. It is said that the unquiet dead haunt that place, Druid Rhobyth, and that all that fall to them become as they are.”
“And are we not discussing a necromancer?” Rhobyth raised an eyebrow. “A foreign magic-worker who commands the Gift of Death, and power over the unquiet dead? Master, surely the Isle of Crows would be the perfect place for such a man to hide his ship?”
“Your theory has merit, Wanderer Rhobyth,” Zorgh acknowle
dged, “and warrants testing. If the outlander and this boy-abomination must walk throughout the Hills of Dusk, which as the chief says span hundreds of miles, perhaps there is a chance that they could yet be overtaken from the air! Leave at once. Take Wanderer Ryvyth with you, where he can make himself useful,” his eyes bored into Ryvyth’s sternly. “I, meanwhile, will inspect this clan more closely. It is vital to be sure,” his gaze flicked to the aged Chief Zovyth, “that no hint of heresy yet remains among the Duskwalker people. I think, Chief Zovyth, that I should be very sure of this before any report goes to the Chieftain of the People of the Bear, or to the Archdruid at the Keep.”
“Your will, Master,” the chief acknowledged, knocking back the last of his fermented pony’s milk, bowing his head and then looking respectfully upward to Zorgh, whose seated position on the only chair in the yurt placed his eyes well above those of the other three men present, kneeling on the rugs.
Druid Wanderer Rhobyth acknowledged the Master’s command without words, rising smoothly and leaving. Ryvyth, however, remained on his knees.
“With your permission, Master, I might be of assistance to you here?” the younger Druid bowed to Zorgh. “I have already carried out certain investigations of my own, and I could save you time in avoiding duplication of my own efforts.”
Zorgh schooled his facial expression to remain serene, although inwardly he fumed at the temerity of this Ryvyth. Daring to disobey him at all was enough, but in front of the clan chief too! A clan chief who was all too ready to sing the praises of a Druid who had uncovered heresy among his people, when he should fear for his own position, if not his life. The relationship between the two men seemed altogether too cosy for Zorgh’s liking. And of course, Ryvyth was of the Bear, like the clan chief and his people, and thus another potential threat to Zorgh’s orders from Archdruid Zarth to keep the matter contained and discreet.