The Heretic's Song (The Song's Of Aarda Book 1)

by K Schultz

  Rehaak listened as Riata and the children told their stories. He pieced the narratives together as they struggled through their tears.

  The children at play noticed an unusual dark shape in the water of the ford. They thought debris had snagged on something in the streambed. As they approached, it advanced toward them. A smell of death and decay emanated from the darkness and fear paralyzed them. When it got close, it tried to grasp them in its black claws. Gillam broke free and pushed the younger ones toward home. Gillam’s act freed them from the effects terror had on their limbs and tongues. They ran screaming homeward.

  The children were not fast enough to escape, so Gillam shielded them by staying between the appalling evil and the younger children. As they reached the door of the house, the sinister entity captured Gillam in its, misshapen claws, and drew him to itself.

  The Miller’s wife, alerted by their shrieks of terror, rushed out and gathered the little ones in her arms. She saw the monster seize Gillam and froze in terror as her children had.

  Riata impassively described the scene, saying, “Duh “‘orrible beastie grabbed muh boy like it were given ‘im a big kiss, ‘cept it warn’t no kiss. Gillam ee were wriggling an squirmin tuh get loose at first but den ee got weaker an stopped ‘is movin. Duh color drained outen Gillam an den ee seemed tuh shrink intuh wat yuh saw a layin on duh bed. Ah hollered out tuh God tuh save us. Duh kreechur dropped Gil and started tuhward me an duh little’uns.

  It warn’t real happy bout dat an started skreetchin an hissin an starin at me wit dem hateful crimson eyes a glowin. Ah seemed out fer God tuh save us agin an fog rolled round is so’s Ah couldn’ rightly see it no more, den it were gone.

  Arter it left, Ah picked up wot were left o’ Gil an tucked ‘im intuh bed hopin dat ‘e would get up agin. Den Ah heerd yuh callin an went outside tuh see yuh standin at duh gate.

  “Wat think yuh on’t,” the Miller, Gael asked, in bewilderment, with Riata, drained and haggard from sorrow, at his side.

  “I have not encountered these beings before, except in my nightmares,” he said.

  “Wat mean yuh by at?” asked the Miller still bewildered. “Wat manner o’ creechur be it?”

  “What I mean Gael — I am not sure, except I have met these creatures in my childhood nightmares,” he said.

  The memory set Rehaak’s heart pounding in fear as it had long ago when he had shivered and sweated in the darkness of his boyhood bedroom.

  “I never expected to encounter these things walking the waking world.”

  “Kin we do summat to stop it cummin back?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Be ere sum’ere we kin go to get away?”

  “I fear a great trial is coming upon mankind. We will be lucky if any of us survive.”

  These people needed to understand the malevolent forces they faced. In a passionate torrent of words, he told them of his own horror-filled childhood dreams, his search for knowledge, and The Creator’s vision of destruction. Rehaak told them the Faithful One’s command, that people turn to Him for protection from the desolation threatening them.

  “It may have been your cry to the one God that drove the ‘beastie,’ away as it did for me in my nightmares. Another possibility is, that having feasted on Gillam’s life it needed nothing else. I am only guessing, but I believe they may be the Nethera, the evil beings from the old legends”

  Their eyes told him they knew the legends and the terror in their eyes mirrored the fear in his own.

  They swore to follow The Creator, but when they asked what the Faithful One wanted, Rehaak told them to ask Isil when she next passed by the mill. Rehaak told them to worship The Creator alone, call on Him for help, and listen for His voice.

  The family were his first converts.

  Rehaak had finally carried out his divine commission, but the success felt hollow, built as it was, on the foundation of their personal tragedy.

  Rehaak needed to inform Laakea of the change in schedule, and the danger they faced. The Miller and his wife implored him to stay the night. They were unwilling he leave the safety of their house, with creatures of evil intent prowling the forest but Rehaak knew that stone walls could never protect him.

  The prospect of a long walk back home, in the deepening twilight, with living nightmares lurking in the shadows, made him quiver like a plucked harp string. He explained that he worried about his houseguest and parted company with the Millers.

  Rehaak didn’t know how to combat a Nethera if one attacked and invoking the name of The Creator may not be enough defense. Dark thoughts multiplied as he paced along the trail. The attack was a preview of the prophetic vision from The Faithful One.

  “What could I do against such powerful and malevolent creatures? I am only one man.

  As Rehaak began his journey into the darkening forest, every shadow menaced him and every shrub concealed a hideous peril. He flinched in fear at noises from the undergrowth. It promised to be a long walk home tonight, alone, in the darkness. Rehaak the adult, feared the dark, cringed from the night sounds, heart pounding, as panic stricken as in childhood. Unlike his boyhood experience, the menace was real. There was no chance to awaken from this nightmare.

  Chapter 16

  Laakea spent the afternoon fighting a swarm of what ifs. What if his father was not at the market? What if he was at the market? What if Rehaak met danger?

  Rehaak was not due for six days. Fears bubbled in Laakea’s head until he thought his brain would boil and explode inside his skull before Rehaak returned.

  Laakea looked for iron around the clearing hoping the search would fend off his dark thoughts. He could cold-forge arrowheads with even small scraps. Because Rehaak’s interests lay in plants, not metals Rehaak may have missed useful material. The Eniila had a natural affinity for iron, and with luck, iron might beckon him.

  “Iron’s in our blood, son,” Aelfric always said. “Wood will rot, stone will shatter, and people will stab you in the back. Iron will cleave wood, break stone and defeat your enemies. Iron’s as stubborn as the Eniila, but the flame, the forge, the hammer and the anvil, bend it to our wills.”

  Although the search distracted Laakea, there was no iron in the clearing, so he trapped a rabbit for supper

  As he built a fire, he discovered an alcove beside the fireplace, containing three excellent long knives wrapped in oilskin. He had a queer sense of dread when handling them, but brushed the feelings aside.

  Rehaak had told him of the attack and how the wolves protected him from the bandits, but he neglected to mention keeping their weapons. Laakea supposed it was his own fault for not telling Rehaak he could cold-forge arrowheads for himself. He had only told Rehaak to buy arrowheads.

  Laakea inspected his discovery with a blacksmith’s practiced eye. He admired the excellent blades, made of a strange colored, polished metal, with steel guards and leather wrapped wooden handles. They measured two spans in length. For an average Abrhaani, they qualified as short swords, but to him they were long daggers. The weapons were sharp on both sides, nothing strange in that, but Laakea couldn’t identify the metal. Light seemed to shine from within it. A master smith had worked runes into the unknown metal. This was beyond Laakea’s skill or even Aelfric’s.

  Robbers were opportunists who took weapons from people they robbed, upgrading as opportunities arose. Common thieves would own a mixture of weaponry of differing quality, not three identical high quality blades. Weapons like this were far beyond the price range of robbers and anyone who owned such blades could hire personal bodyguards, making it impossible that robbers had stolen them.

  The knives’ level of uniformity puzzled Laakea. It was difficult to produce duplicate items from steel. Every hammer stroke, every cut of the file randomized the product. It was easy to make things similar, but for this level of exactitude, a smith needed to be fastidious, and time and effort added cost to the product.

  He turned the blade he was holding, trying to make out the insc
ription in the gray-green metal. Laakea did not have Rehaak’s skill with letters, so he could not read the symbols that seemed to glide across the metal’s surface

  He wondered if Rehaak had inspected the inscriptions or just tucked the weapons away and forgotten them. Laakea held an enigma in his hand that might divulge clues as important to Rehaak’s quest, as the book that Rehaak sought. He couldn’t read books, but the story written in the metal was one he comprehended.

  As twilight approached, Laakea had not started supper, so he roasted the rabbit over the fire. While his hands were busy, he pondered the paradox of the blades.

  The iron of the guard might yield enough broad-heads for his entire supply of arrows. Given time and access to his father’s forge he could reshape the blades into something else.

  A powerful urge drew Laakea to create new weapons from the ones he held. Although he and his father only made agricultural and logging tools, the principals of metalworking were the same, regardless of the tools’ purpose. Whenever Laakea wanted to cut corners, Aelfric reminded him that weapons were just a different type of tool.

  “Think of the plowshare as a sword to carve the earth, son. If the plow fails, the planting fails. If the crop fails, people die just as on the battlefield or the arena of justice,” his father’s voice echoed in his memory. “Use the same care for every item no matter how plain its purpose.”

  He told Laakea that his skill with the hammer and the blade would someday save his life. The Eniila let the gods judge the rightness of a cause by granting victory or defeat in battle. Aelfric often said with cynicism, that the gods favored the well prepared and well-armed, so Aelfric drilled his son as though his life depended on it, because it did.

  Since they were the only Eniila for thousands of leagues and the Abrhaani who lived around them were peaceful farmers, Laakea didn’t see the need for rigorous training. Aelfric insisted that Laakea persevere, saying, “You never know what lies ahead on your life’s road, nor can you predict what you will meet along it. Prepare for every possibility; the gods will see to the rest. That’s the way to live. Anything else is the way to die.”

  The moon rose outside, and Laakea ended his reverie. As he sat eating his meal, he felt uneasy about Rehaak alone on the trail. Worry gnawed his mind as he gnawed the bones of the rabbit he charred. He finished eating and hoped a walk might relieve his apprehension. As a precaution Laakea stuck two of the unusual knives in his belt before he left.

  It was a warm clear night, the gibbous moon hanging overhead, illuminated everything. Shadowy leaves etched in silver moonlight glistened and fluttered in the night breeze.

  Laakea had little trouble seeing the trail ahead. Night blooming flowers scented the air and the Night-Hoppers and Hooters called to each other as he walked the full distance to the main village trail. Laakea felt foolish for his anxiety, until the night creatures fell silent.

  The hair on his arms and neck stood on end, as if chilled by a frigid breeze. Laakea strained to listen, but heard nothing. He finally understood the saying, “The silence was deafening.” It was so quiet he felt he had gone deaf.

  He withdrew the blades from his belt and crept forward from shadow to shadow along the wagon trail, breathing through his mouth, preventing breath sounds from masking other noises. His time spent stalking and hunting game with his father prepared him to move as silent as a shadow among the trees. In the distance, grunts, cries of pain and effort reached him. He raced along the wagon-trail not knowing what lay ahead and hoping he was not too late.

  He rounded one last corner and saw a man fighting off several attackers. It was Rehaak. Laakea was almost within striking distance when Rehaak felled one man with his staff. Before Rehaak regained his balance from delivering the blow, another man struck Rehaak’s head. Rehaak collapsed on top of his fallen opponent. Anger at the injustice boiled in Laakea. Laakea bellowed a battle cry and cast himself into the melee like a cyclone of retribution. His first victim was the man who felled Rehaak and stood over him, prepared to deliver the killing stroke.

  White-hot fury suffused Laakea’s limbs with pure power. Electricity crackled along his nerves, and strength sizzled through his sinews. Around him, everything slowed and Laakea’s movements became a slow-motion dance of death. He anticipated their thrusts, and planned a response long before their blades came near him.

  His body moved at the speed of thought. Laakea blocked, parried, thrusted, and slashed with deadly effect. He choreographed the sequences with ruthless efficiency, and taunted them with false openings in his guard that trapped them. He felt no pain and no remorse.

  Laakea’s limbs dealt a hurricane of death to his enemies but his mind was the calm at its center. His movements, automatic, his body and reflexes conditioned by long hours of practice; his strength and speed augmented by the fury that raged within him. The long knives in his hands were scythes mowing flesh like ripe grain. He whirled and slashed, detached and calm, struck their weapons aside and thrust his own through openings in their defenses.

  Laakea counted them down as they fell. Four men left standing, three, two, one.

  He paused long enough to see his final opponent’s eyes widen in terror as the fellow realized that he now faced death alone. Laakea saw a chilling reflection of himself in the man’s eyes.

  His opponent stared in shock, without time to beg for mercy or flee. Justice, in the form of a boy with blood-drenched blades, meted out his punishment. Justice crossed its arms and with a double cross-hand blow sliced the large arteries on either side of his neck. His life drained away, leaving time to see Justice’s blood spattered face, and fierce eyes pass judgment before his vision faded.

  The world sped up again, catching Laakea off guard, leaving him dizzy and weak. Laakea came back to himself, no longer a spectator. His joints and sinews ached, sweat stung his eyes. Tired, weak, and shaken, he barely recognized the furious thing he had been. The whole skirmish took less time than Laakea took to skin a rabbit, but a lifetime of change occurred.

  “I have taken lives,” he said aloud, his voice shaking. “I have met a berserker from my father’s stories, and it’s me.”

  Nausea overtook him as his supper erupted onto the forest floor beside the men whose lives he took. Laakea had lost his innocence and once it disappeared, he realized how precious it was. Water would remove the blood from his hands, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the bloodstains from his soul. Unable to retrace his steps or breathe life into the fallen, he took comfort that he saved a friend, and righted a wrong.

  With his guts emptied, he searched for Rehaak’s body among the slain. He found his friend lying sprawled across the body of an attacker.

  “At least I can give Rehaak a decent burial back at the clearing. The others can rot on the forest floor,” he fumed.

  Laakea planned to return and collect the spoils of combat, but they were insufficient pay for what he lost tonight.

  When Laakea rolled Rehaak’s body out of the dark pool of blood glistening in the moonlight, he saw a sizable gash to the side of Rehaak’s head.

  As Laakea hoisted his friend off the ground, Rehaak moaned in pain.

  “Rehaak’s alive!”

  A sense of urgency renewed Laakea’s strength. He ran to the hut with Rehaak bouncing across his shoulders, Rehaak’s wound leaking down his back. In Laakea’s mind, it took hours to return home, though in reality, it took moments. Once inside he tossed wood on the fire, lit a candle and examined the wound.

  A glancing blow had sheared a flap of Rehaak’s scalp loose, although bloody, it was not life threatening. The flap hung from the white bone of his unbroken skull. Laakea got a cloth and water from the bucket at the door and hurried to dress the wound before Rehaak regained consciousness. Laakea cleaned the wound, the way his mother taught him, positioned the flap as best he could and bound it into place.

  “I have done everything I can, Creator. You must look after him now,” he said, surprising himself by praying, to a god he had not kn
own or believed in a few days ago. “I am sorry Rehaak, for not being capable of more. I must sleep now my friend.”

  Exhausted, Laakea collapsed on the earthen floor by the hearth and fell into a dreamless sleep, while shaggy four-legged shadows patrolled outside in the moonlight.

  Chapter 17

  In the fog gray morning, Aelfric stood on the rocky shore, looking across choppy water. The icy wind put an ache in his joints, as he strained to see the far shoreline of the inlet. It was many years since he last visited this spot. The world was new, filled with promise and possibility and a fresh start beckoned from beyond the horizon.

  He was young, full of ideas and ideals. Shelhera came with him, loved him, and supported his dream of starting a new life. Sixteen years had stolen his dreams, his youth, his wife, and his son. Aelfric was twenty-six when he arrived on Khel Braah, now he was forty-two and Shelhera was dead and gone. The hot flame of her life and her love grown cold in his memory. Laakea left too, leaving him in unremitting solitude.

  Aelfric knew he should have talked to the boy and explained the past. Instead, he withheld his own history and that of their people. He had the best of intentions. Aelfric wanted to protect his son from history, hoping Laakea would not repeat it.

  In spite of abandoning a warrior’s life himself, he trained his son for war, praying to every god whose name he knew, that Laakea never needed the skills he taught, but Aelfric understood the necessity.

  Smithing and fighting were his only talents, so he imparted those abilities to the boy on the practice field and in the forge. Aelfric trained Laakea to live by the Warrior Code that ruled his life and the lives of every Eniila for generations, perhaps because he could not envision another way.

  Someday Laakea must return to Baradon, to find a suitable wife. Aelfric could not allow his son to marry an Abrhaani girl. If Laakea lived, Baradon was where he must go and in Baradon his son needed every combat advantage Aelfric taught him and more. Yes, his son must go to Baradon.