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

by K Schultz

  He leapt to his feet and danced among the flames.

  “I want. — Now I understand,” he sang out, as he danced. “I do wrong when I want something so badly that I don’t care about the consequences of my actions to others. That’s when I do wrong. That is selfishness. Selfishness is the root of my wrongdoing and the root of mankind’s problems.”

  Selflessness is what my companions have taught me, by their actions and their words. They put the needs of others first. Respect, honor, and love motivate them.”

  The flames rose higher and danced, celebrating with him at the revelation.

  “So if I care for others as I do for myself, I shun evil. If I care more about my own wants and myself than I do about others and their needs, then I create evil. Wait till I tell Rehaak!”

  “Now, what about the other problems?”

  “If I care for others can I take their lives? Is it ever right to kill another person?”

  Laakea paused and reflected before he spoke aloud again.

  “If I never killed those men, they would have killed my friend. If I never took action, they would have been able to carry out their evil intentions toward him. I opposed those evil intentions and the men who bore them. If they had succeeded, then evil would have triumphed. They chose evil but I chose justice. If we allow evil to continue unchecked, all creation is at risk. I have sworn to protect the weak and the innocent. I have taken an oath to oppose wickedness, so I may kill those who intend to kill the innocent.”

  Once again, the flames danced and celebrated his newfound wisdom.

  “Alright, where am I? Selvyn said this was The Maker’s forge. So why am I here? Why do we put metal in the forge? To heat it, so we can form it to our purposes.”

  “If that is true, The Creator has brought me to his forge to reshape me. Well then, come flame; heat me until The Maker shapes me as He desires.”

  Laakea stooped and gathered handfuls of flame, as if he were gathering a bouquet of wildflowers for his mother. As he gathered them, a flaming forge appeared before him, like an altar to the gods. He was sure it was not there a moment ago.

  “No,’ he corrected himself, “An altar to The Maker, not to the gods.”

  Laakea walked over to inspect the forge where an anvil and a pile of metal sat waiting like an incomplete offering. The two misshapen masses of stuff he tried to forge without success, lay near the anvil where he had left them. The lumps were unfinished tools. He had tried to create something from them, but he could not remember what it was.

  Seven knives lay nearby, twisted, ugly parodies of offerings to The Maker. The knives reeked of evil, and the flames swarmed over them as if trying to devour them, or at least prevent them from wreaking havoc.

  “What shall I make for you, my Lord Maker?”

  “Make Truth for me,” the words drifted into his mind.

  Laakea still held flameflowers in his left hand as he reached his right to take up the first two lumps of metal. Laakea frowned at them before he set them on the anvil. He caressed the metal with his fingers while whispering — truth, and repeated the word until the repetition became a melody. As he continued to caress the metal with his fingers, the flameflowers in his left hand crept across his body to the metal, joining his fingers in the caress. The metal of his two failures joined and reformed.

  Laakea saw the crystals inside the metal. Crystalline structures, like tiny jewels, resonated with his chanting and realigned into new configurations within the metal. The crystals linked in ordered formations, as he continued chanting and soon Truth took shape.

  He held Truth in his hand. It was perfect. It had two very sharp edges. The edge was a single crystal wide, an edge so sharp it could split a floating hair lengthways. It was complete in its beauty, but it was alone. He needed to make and companion for Truth.

  “What else shall I make Lord Creator? He whispered in reverential awe?”

  “Fashion Justice for me.”

  Laakea recognized the Voice now, as the melodic golden words entered his mind.

  “You shall be called Justice, he chanted as he set Truth aside, and picked up two more knives, that lay beside the anvil. Laakea repeated the process of caressing the metal on the anvil, stroking it, and chanting. The tune was different, but once again, he looked inside the metal. He saw how the previous smith had twisted the pure metal into a form that served evil, but as Laakea sang, his song grew in power and intensity. He burned evil from the metal with the flames on his fingers and created Justice with his song.”

  The crystals aligned into a different pattern from the first sword, a pattern called Justice. Soon Justice lay before him. It was both beautiful and terrible. It had two sharp edges like Truth, and he knew that Justice could not exist without Truth. Truth demanded Justice.

  “Is anything more lovely than Truth and Justice,” he thought.

  “Righteousness,” the voice whispered to him. “For without Righteousness, Truth and Justice can still be twisted and perverted.”

  Laakea grasped the other pieces of metal from the pile and sang a bold new melody to them, as he ran his hands across their surfaces. The assassins’ knives flowed together as he worked the evil out of their shaping. Wickedness became righteousness on the anvil of his will, beaten into shape by the hammer of his song. Righteousness was good and strong, a defense against evil.

  Laakea noticed that his skin had absorbed the flameflowers. Then, before he realized that he had begun, Righteousness lay complete in front of him. He held it to his chest; it fit him well, and protected his heart. This too he set aside, suddenly tired and spent.

  “Is there aught else I can make for you my Lord Maker?”

  “It is enough for now. Rest, lest your labors overcome you. Depart in peace my champion.”

  Laakea knelt at the anvil on one knee with his head bowed before his Maker. The flames coruscating over his body subsided. He was at peace, exhausted, unable to rise, but he knew he must leave before the fire consumed him. Laakea had insufficient strength even to lift his head. He struggled to stand, but fell facedown instead. Velvet darkness enfolded him into its quiet heart.

  Then the darkness was no longer silent. Voices called him out of the gloom and back to the light. They called his name, and drew him back from the forge of The Maker. Laakea wanted to stay but the voices needed him. It was time to leave, but the journey was long. Gentle hands lifted him and Laakea thanked The Creator for sending them, because he couldn’t make the journey on his own strength.

  From far away a rough edged voice filled with compassion sang out. It was a beacon of light in the darkness and it filled him with courage and strength. Laakea followed the sound back to Aarda, where they needed him more than ever.

  Chapter 29

  Isil and Rehaak had found Laakea unconscious at the forge three days ago and carried him back to the house. Isil tended him and sang prayers over him, day and night, as he burned with fever. Neither of them had seen anything like this. Laakea never moved and made no sound other than his labored breathing. Isil kept an anxious watch over him and bathed him with moist cloths to reduce his temperature.

  “Are yuh sure yuh can’t do something more fer him, Rehaak?” said Isil, her voice filled with concern. It was the morning of the fourth day of Laakea’s coma.

  “I did everything I could, but without knowing what happened to him, I am reluctant to give him herbs. I doubt he can swallow and I do not know what caused this and if I guess wrong, he is so weak it could kill him. We are both helpless and I know nothing else we can do to break the fever. Laakea is in The Creator’s hands. Whether he lives or dies is up to Him.”

  “Why didn’t we hear him working duh forge? We should’a heard him banging on duh anvil while he made doze swords and dat breastplate.”

  Rehaak shrugged, “That is another thing I can’t explain. If he ever wakes again we will ask him, but for now we can only watch him and make him comfortable.” Rehaak left the room, while Isil continued her vigil over Laakea’s f
everish form.

  She needed rest herself, but she refused to leave his bedside. Isil understood Rehaak had tried to help Laakea, but she wanted to do more.

  “We needs yuh back laddy. Yuh got yer weapons — but dey be useless if dere be no one tuh wield em,” she said hoping he could hear her.

  Isil’s eyes felt like she had sand trapped under her eyelids in spite of the hot moist tears filling them. If her son had lived, he would have been Laakea’s age. Laakea was a brave, strong lad and no mother could ask more from a son. Isil closed her eyes while she waited. She leaned forward to rest her head on the bed beside Laakea. It promised to be another long day. She felt like an eggshell in an empty nest, with the hatchlings fledged and flown, fragile, empty, and alone.

  Sorrow surfaced in her thoughts like sulphurous bubbles from the depths of a swamp. In response to her despair, she poured out her heart to The Creator.

  “I feels so lost and helpless. I just met Laakea, but I loves him as muh own boy Eyhan. If yuh be takin him now dat be your right. He belongs tuh you, but what’ll I do?”

  How can yuh ‘spect me tuh continue, if I loses dis boy too? Muh life’ll be water poured ontuh dry ground, absorbed without a damp spot tuh prove dat I wuz ever here. I done lived without direction, purpose, and meaning tuh muh life, fer too long now. I gave up everythin tuh join dese men on dis journey, and if yuh takes him. If it be over, I’ll just drift through duh world again til duh frigid fingers o’ death reaches out tuh claw me out of it.”

  “It used tuh be easy, and clear what I should be doin next. Now, dat seems fruitless. Meals made, cleaning done, mithun tended, freight hauled from one place tuh duh next. Is dat what muh life amounts tuh? Is muh life jest a list o’ tasks completed, with tally marks beside each one? I wants more’n dat. I wants muh life tuh have meaning and significance.”

  “I used tuh be somebody, tuh someone once and I had folk what cared about me. Dis here young’un has got tuh live, cause tuh him I’m somebody. Please don’t be takin dat away now dat I got it again.” Consciousness slipped away, and she slept, her head resting on the bed beside Laakea.

  Isil awoke to a hand stroking her hair, as bright morning light streamed through the window. She jerked upright to see Laakea looking at her. He looked pale and drawn but he was awake at last! She grasped his hand in both of her calloused palms. It felt cool to her touch. His fever had broken.

  “Creator be praised!” she shouted, and threw herself on Laakea, enfolding him in a hug that threatened to squeeze out his remaining life.

  “Isil,” he panted. “Let me go before you smother me.”

  “Sorry laddy.” She released him, embarrassed by her thoughtlessness, but flooded with relief he was alive. Rehaak raced into the room and skidded to a halt beside her.

  “You are alive,” he exclaimed, relief in his voice.

  “Spot, your keen grasp of the obvious amazes me.”

  Laakea’s weak grin was a balm to Rehaak’s heart. Rehaak never admitted it to Isil, but he feared that Laakea would die from his unknown affliction. That concern had intensified his desire to flee at the first opportunity. Rehaak had stayed because he felt responsible for the boy’s condition. Although he didn’t understand what caused the problem, or what to do about it, he did not want Laakea to perish because he lacked medical care.

  “And your sense of humor is still as bad as ever,” Rehaak responded, smiling back.

  “Stop it, duh pair o’ yuh,” Isil scolded, though there was the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Is dat duh best yuh can do fer someone who has laid at duh gates o’ death dese past five days and nights? Rehaak, get dis young man vittles, afore he wastes away.”

  “Yes mistress,” he mocked.

  “It is good you are back Laakea. While you were sick, she was unbearable tyrant. I need your help to deliver me from the scourge of her incessant demands.”

  Isil rose from her chair, and raised her hand as if to cuff Rehaak.

  “See what I mean,” he said, as he scampered to the doorway, in mock terror. “Please don’t beat me anymore. I promise I will be good.”

  “I will show you the multitudinous bruises later Laakea.”

  Laakea chuckled at Rehaak’s antics.

  Although he wobbled like a newborn lamb when he tried to walk, he got out of bed, with Isil’s help. After he had dressed himself, gone to the privy and washed, he dragged his exhausted body to the dining table. While he sat waiting for breakfast, he drank mug after mug of water trying to quench his insatiable thirst.

  “I had an interesting dream,” he said, as they sat together. Isil and Rehaak looked knowingly at one another, but remained silent as Laakea related his experiences in the Garden of Flame.

  Neither Rehaak nor Isil interrupted his story. Laakea told Rehaak what he had discovered about selfishness being the source of the problems that plagued mankind. Rehaak nodded in solemn agreement.

  When Laakea finished his story, Rehaak rose from the table. “Stay with Isil, I must get something,” he said.

  “What’s going on Isil?”

  “Yuh’ll see soon enough I imagine.”

  Within moments, Rehaak returned with a large bundle wrapped in oiled skins. When he set it on the table without comment in front of Laakea, it clanked.

  “What’s this? A present for me?”

  “It is a present. I hoped you could tell me how you got it, and you have already done so,” Rehaak said with a cryptic smile.

  Laakea unwrapped the package. He recognized the objects he found there.

  “How is this possible? Did I make these?” he asked, as he looked at the shiny objects in front of him.

  The Ehlbringa was different now, brighter, translucent and Laakea knew the runes scripted near the guards of the swords meant Truth and Justice. He also knew the rune worked into the center of the breastplate meant Righteousness.

  The swords shimmered, as if light trapped within the metal, tried to escape. Both swords had just the right weight and perfect balance. He tested their sharpness with his thumb and realized he had cut himself only because he saw the blood oozing from the wounds. The breastplate was thin and light as thistle-down. Worn padded and concealed under a shirt it could absorb tremendous blows directed against its wearer.

  “I had hoped that you could answer that question for us,” Rehaak began.

  “Now we have heard your dream, I understand. It was not simply a dream. These items were beside you when we found you, on the floor of the forge, burning with fever and limp as a corpse. You must have made them while you slept, though I doubt you were experiencing anything like sleep. You were at the forge of The Maker. The forging of these things nearly destroyed you.”

  “I reckon. Dat splains duh fever too,” Isil added, nodding. “Yuh was in duh forge o’ duh Creator and it took yuh a while tuh cool off again.”

  “Well then, I suppose we can continue with your quest Rehaak. Now I have the tools to protect you. I still need to wrap the sword grips with rawhide and attach binding straps for the breastplate, but that won’t take long.”

  “Yuh still needs tuh rest laddy. Forgin dem things took too much out o’ yuh, Yuh near died doin it,”

  “I suppose you’re right Isil, but Rehaak tells me, and I have seen it for myself. We Eniila heal much faster than you Abrhaani. It won’t be long before I’m back to normal.”

  “That’s right Isil, but he’ll eat a mountain of food to do it,” Rehaak added before falling silent.

  Laakea noticed Rehaak sitting, pensive and troubled.

  “What’s wrong, Spot?” he asked.

  “Oh — nothing, just thinking,” he answered.

  “It’s not a lie,” Rehaak convinced himself. “This quest has already cost everyone too much. I must leave, before someone dies on my account.”

  “At least we know the meaning behind your father’s song,” he said, changing the subject. “Do you think he ever worked Ehlbringa?”

  “No, he had no Ehlbringa to use.
To him it was a work song, a ballad, set to the rhythm of hammer blows on the anvil. He said no one since Selvyn worked with Ehlbringa.”

  “I had an idea. I could be one of Selvyn’s descendants! My mother used to recite her genealogy. Someone named Selvyn was in the list, over ten generations ago.”

  Laakea paused in his recollection. His face solemn, he spoke again, “But that leaves me with an uncomfortable conclusion about the assassin’s blades.”

  “What conclusion?” asked Rehaak?

  “The flame creature said Selvyn was the last Eniila who worked with Ehlbringa. If Selvyn was the last, who made those knives? If that is true, then Selvyn himself made them. That is the only explanation.”

  “Why is dat important?” asked Isil.

  “Selvyn is an Eniila hero. How could a hero do such wickedness? Those weapons radiated evil, they were twisted creations, wrought to serve the darkness, designed to murder for the Dark Ones.”

  “Is dat why dey gave us duh creeps tuh handle ‘em den?”

  “You are right. I wonder what happened to Selvyn that caused him to turn away from the light and create those perversions of his craft. I remember something the flame being told me, when I said that I might misuse power, if I received it.”

  “What did it say?” asked Rehaak, looking puzzled.

  “The flame being said, ‘You have spoken truth. To his disgrace, Selvyn also found this to be true.’”

  “It must be difficult to believe that a hero of your species followed the Dark Ones,” said Rehaak.

  Laakea did not answer rewrapped the breastplate and the two swords. He knew that this metal was immune to rust. They were holy items, so he wrapped them with reverence. Laakea wondered how Selvyn could have twisted Ehlbringa to serve the Dark Ones. Why would he want to do it? He shuddered at the thought of so much power bent to the service of evil, even as he rejoiced that he had such fine weapons to protect his friends.

  “I have rawhide for the grips. I will have them wrapped before tomorrow,” he said.