by E. J. Godwin
“A saying of the Raéni?”
“Of my father’s. It’s only common sense.”
“Huh! It was common sense to banish me, I suppose.”
Soren brought out some dried beef, and a small loaf of bread. He tore off a piece and handed it to Warren, who shoved it in his mouth and ran off to resume his play, cheeks bulging like a squirrel. “They don’t know you that well,” Soren finally answered. “Remember, you’re a stranger to them, Raén or no Raén.”
“Are you making excuses for him?”
Unperturbed, Soren divided the rest of the loaf and sat down, handing one half to Caleb. “I’m telling you not to make the mistake he did and let anger cloud your judgment. Once you find and destroy Kseleksten he’ll have no choice but to recognize your integrity and revoke the Rite of Exile.”
“I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Only by the one who performed the rite. It’s never been done, though.”
“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. But it might take me years to find Kseleksten—if ever!”
Soren studied the sky as he chewed. “I won’t go so far as to say he won’t change his mind before then. But it’s not likely. By some cruel fate you’ve found the Medallion of Yrsten. Until you eliminate the last source of evil you must suffer your misfortune.” A keen interest lit his eyes. “You say you found it near your ship?”
Caleb quickly swallowed his last bite. “As soon as we left it. Warren kept digging at something in the grass. I went to look, and pulled out what I thought was a simple coin.” He shook his head. “Cruel fate? I call it just plain bad luck.”
Soren gazed at him steadily. “Warren saw the Medallion before you did?”
Caleb nodded absently. Then a rush of blood warmed his cheeks. “I dug the coin out of the dirt. I’m the one who found the damned thing!”
Soren munched his food in brooding silence for a moment. “The Prophecy says nothing about—”
“I know what it says,” he cried, swinging his arm as if to brush the suggestion away. He pointed over at Warren, who was still collecting stones, oblivious to the turn their conversation had taken. “Are you saying that a child—my boy—is your damned Bringer of Evil?”
“Something about this stirs my fears,” he said, then paused before continuing. “It might be hard for you to accept, but—”
“There’s nothing to accept,” Caleb shouted, jumping to his feet. “If anyone is this ridiculous Bringer person, I am. And if you want proof,” he added, hand shaking as he pointed at Soren, “then call my son by that title once, just once—and I’ll be happy to fulfill your Prophecy right now!”
Soren had risen as well. “Calm yourself,” he said, palms outward. “My affection and obligation toward your son has not changed, just as my opinion of you did not change after Udan. If evil comes, it will certainly not be by his choice.” He paused as though to say something more, then sat down and resumed his meal in a clear attempt to end the conversation.
“Wait a minute,” Caleb said, stepping forward. “Now that you think I’m not this Bringer, shouldn’t you be telling me to return to Udan and face the consequences?”
“Did the Oath do nothing more than pass your lips? Give aid to all Adaiani in their need. That includes everyone, including Warren—and yes, you too, before you start grouching about how unappreciated you are. In any case, what better way to determine the truth of this prophecy than to stay close at hand?”
“I see. Friendship is no longer your primary reason.”
“It never was! The Oath transcends everything, even friendship.” He snapped to a stand and walked over to groom the horses. Caleb fumed, but he knew better than to pursue the matter further, and called Warren over to help with the packing.
♦
Few words passed between them as they rode down the valley that day. When Caleb’s wrath cooled he realized how unfair he had been to Soren, who was simply the only available outlet for his bottled-up resentment. But the old Raén was like cold stone, and Caleb could not work up the nerve to offer a friendly remark. Part of him believed Soren’s suggestion; otherwise he merely would have laughed.
Like truants lost in a vast, neglected orchard, they threaded their way through the tall bushes, every sense alert. A cold wind swept down from the mountains, sending multitudes of little yellow leaves spinning from the branches. When the setting sun shone in their faces, they stopped. Soren muttered only two words, “No fire,” then resumed his silence. He seemed ill at ease whenever Warren approached, and Caleb’s attempts at conversation evoked mere grunts and nods. Caleb gave it up, and rolled out his blankets while Soren took the first watch.
An hour or so before midnight, the Master Raén nudged him awake. He offered no advice, retiring without a word. Caleb struggled up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. With a blanket wrapped tight to stave off the bitter wind, and a silent curse at his companion’s obstinate silence, he walked a dozen yards and sat against the sheltered side of a tall stone.
The moonless sky glittered with stars, and the dark bushes tossed about like restless hulks. Caleb’s eyelids drooped constantly, in spite of the cold. He rose and paced around to keep awake. An eerie sensation crawled down the nape of his neck, but he attributed it to the uncanny darkness.
After a while a gibbous moon crept over the eastern mountains, like the opening eye of a gigantic beast. Though it was smaller than Earth’s, it looked nearly the same with its closer orbit, taking only sixteen days to complete a cycle. Yet it seemed to take an eternity to clear the bushes.
No sooner had this thought formed when a strong arm clamped tightly around his neck. A sharp point jabbed into his back, breaking the skin, and the arm tightened, choking off his cry.
The instincts his Raéni instructors had harshly instilled in him now paid off. He lifted his right foot and kicked hard behind him, striking a knee. A grunt of pain sounded at Caleb’s ear, and the hold on his neck loosened. The blade lost its bite.
He twisted around in a flash and jabbed his fingers directly into the man’s eyes. The assailant yelled hoarsely and covered his bloodied face with his hands, dropping the knife. Caleb froze, shocked by what he had done. But the man’s screams were echoing far and wide, and he had no choice but to yank out his Fetra and pass a lateral swipe through the neck. The blade rang as the bearded head toppled to the ground; the body slumped to a heap, quivered for a moment, then lay still.
Soren braked to a halt with his sword held ready. “Hodyn,” he said softly. “We must leave at once. There’ll be more of them soon.”
Caleb tore himself away from the dark pool of blood spreading at his feet. “Where’s Warren?”
“Hush! He’s here.” Soren turned to reveal the boy gripping his tunic like a frightened monkey. Caleb dropped his weapon as Warren ran up to him.
“It’s all right, son.”
“Now, Caleb Stenger!” Soren hissed.
He nodded. “I’m coming.”
Soren hid the body as best he could in the bushes, and they returned to camp to saddle the horses. Caleb glanced at Soren as they gathered their belongings.
“It won’t get any easier, will it?” he asked, mindful to lower his voice.
Soren kept silent, and Caleb fumed, but he was only considering his reply. “Remember what I said at the park that day?” he said. “You’re finally discovering the true meaning of the Oath.”
“Damned be the Oath!” Caleb whispered. “I was saving my life! The Oath was the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Indeed.”
Caleb stared at his unfinished pack and gritted his teeth. “Curse you, Soren! Why are you being so unreasonable?”
“I fear what the future will bring.” He glared at him. “You can’t pack your horse and talk at the same time?”
Caleb snapped into action. “You fear because now you believe Warren found the Medallion? He’s only a boy!”
“Again, your mouth works harder than your brain. We don’t know w
hat kind of threat Kseleksten holds for us. An adult might be more careful, if he’s wise enough. But a child?”
Caleb finished packing and hoisted Warren into the saddle, his thoughts racing. “You’re sure the evil will be through Kseleksten?”
Soren mounted quickly, and the old mare snorted her protest. “We’ll need to ride hard to escape the Hodyn,” he said. “I’ve hidden the body, but they’ll probably find it anyway. And I’ll give you one more reply before we must both keep quiet: Kseleksten, the First Lor’yentré, is the last source of evil in the world. No matter how improbable it seems, Caleb Stenger, the fulfillment of Yrsten is upon us. Our best hope to protect Ada now is through knowledge—by what we find at Graxmoar.”
They started off. Caleb glanced down at Warren, who sat before him, too sleepy to heed their argument. I’ve already changed fate once, Caleb thought defiantly. I’ll change it again.
♦
A high cloud cover drifted in from the south, veiling the moon. Dawn was hours away. Soren led the way, tensing as he rounded every bush.
They had barely entered a small clearing when Caleb felt the flesh of his neck crawl again. He leaned forward. “This place doesn’t feel right,” he whispered.
Soren whipped around, a hand over his mouth. It was too late. Dark forms sprung from the bushes, and fierce cries shattered the nightly calm. Had the clearing been larger they might have escaped, yet before Caleb could react a net was cast over his head and arms. The Master Raén drew his weapon, but a well-aimed whip snatched it away. Several strong hands yanked him off his mount and pinned him to the ground.
Warren flailed at the ropes, crying out. Caleb’s horse panicked, and both he and Warren fought to stay on as it snorted and bucked. Yet their struggles only further entangled them, and before he knew it Caleb slammed to the ground, Warren on top. He righted himself in an instant, but his stare came level with the point of a wide blade shining dimly in the light.
His head spun. It was all over in a few seconds. A thickly accented voice cut through the night air. “Move one muscle and die, Adaian!” Caleb held still, whispering to his son to do the same.
Another voice nearby spoke in the guttural Hodyn language, the basics of which Caleb had studied at Gerentesk. “That’s no Adaian. He’s got a beard!”
“Eh? Not much of one. Looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. Trethan spy?”
“Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough. Get the net off him and tie him up proper, and we’ll have a little talk. Same with the boy.”
Warren sobbed as they drew him aside and tied his hands. It took all of Caleb’s willpower to remain calm, to remind himself that fatherly heroics at this point would only end in disaster.
“Hold on, Warren—they won’t hurt you,” he whispered shakily in English, hoping desperately it wasn’t a lie.
Someone jabbed a shoe into his back. “Quiet!”
Soren was already tied, hands in back. Yet his legs were still free, and he kicked like a rodeo calf until a sword threatened his face. The Hodyn who first spoke bent down and smiled.
“So! I’ve captured a prize!” His voice turned grim. “You’ve murdered many of my comrades, Soren. Now there will be payment.”
“With only one life, Hodyn.”
He waved a finger. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re going to be very valuable to us.”
“I prefer death.”
The man grinned. “Even that of the boy, eh?”
Caleb roared his defiance until the nearest soldier set the point of his sword to his chest. Though his mouth was dry, Caleb worked up enough spit to defile the man’s blade.
It was the lowest of insults, to both Adaian and Hodyn alike, and the guard reared his sword with a cry. “Hold!” the leader shouted, stopping him barely in time. The soldier lowered his weapon, gritted his teeth, then swung his hand across his victim’s face.
Caleb fell to one side, his head ringing from the blow. Yet he had enough wits left to hear Soren’s protest.
“How heroic. How so like the Hodyn!”
The leader took Soren’s tunic into his fists. “My brother lies back there dead, pig,” he cried, spittle flying. His black eyes smoldered; then he released him with a curse.
He turned to the others nearby. “Kerdon, Polla: post a watch while we talk. There might be more of these filthy Raéni about.”
Caleb struggled to right himself, his cheek aching and swollen. He looked over at Warren. The boy had a scrape along the temple, presumably from the fall, but no other marks. Tears still coursed down his cheeks, renewed no doubt by the sight of his father being mistreated. But he seemed to understand it was best to keep quiet.
Soren wrestled with his ropes, cursing. Caleb got the impression he was cursing at himself rather than at the Hodyn.
“Aye!” the leader said, perceiving Soren’s thoughts. “You made it so easy for us, riding out into this lovely little spot.” He bowed with mock-politeness, and the others laughed.
After a few minutes he sat down before them, a dim oil lantern between, his dark-complected face all business now. Beyond his ragged clothes, his only embellishment was a short braid of rough hair on one side that ended at a small, crudely decorated bone.
“My name is Losien. I’m not usually chosen for this kind of thing. It was my luck to be in the right place at the right time. Luck favors you, too, in a way. If you were anyone else, you’d all be dead right now.”
He paused, his scrutiny darting between Soren and Caleb. “We come seeking the Bringer of Strength.”
Soren remained wooden. Caleb tried to copy him, but Losien grinned. “We’ve done well. Which one of you is it?”
Neither answered, and Caleb’s stomach went cold. Losien spoke again. “Your boy is seconds away from paying the price for your ignorance.”
“No!” Caleb bellowed.
Losien faced him calmly. “Then tell us.”
Caleb had no choice but to play the game, and swallow his pride. “I am. I found the Medallion.” Soren growled his frustration.
The Hodyn murmured among themselves, and Losien’s eyes widened as they glanced from father to son. “Oh ho!” he cried. “The famous Falling Man, and his boy—of course, of course!”
“How did you learn about Udan so fast?” Caleb managed to ask.
Losien chuckled. “No doubt your Adan friends told you that the Hodyn are filthy, ignorant folk. Truth is, we know much of what happens in Udan, even Ekendoré at times.” His stare narrowed critically. “Your sword and clothing are Adan, but you don’t look like one of them. Your name—I forget your name, Falling Man.”
“You brag about how much you know, yet you don’t even know my name.” It was the weakest of insults and didn’t affect Losien in the slightest. “I’m Caleb Stenger, a Raén of Ada!” He mustered enough enthusiasm to at least sound genuine.
“Was. I would say you’ve broken the Oath by your admission.” Losien glanced at the Master Raén. “Looks like Soren thinks so, too. Seems you have no friends left, Falling Man.”
“Just say what you want, and have done!”
“You—what else? You are the Bringer of Strength for the Hodyn. Bringer of Evil to the Adaiani. What better prize than that?”
“So you’re just going to take me home, put me in a vault, and see what happens?”
“Hardly. What can a mere man accomplish? He needs a tool. It’s as plain to us as it is to the Raéni that Yrsten is connected to Kseleksten.”
“I know nothing of this Kseleksten.”
“Don’t take me for a fool! You’ve studied at Gerentesk to join the Raéni. You know all about Orand and the Prophecy. You will lead us to Kseleksten!”
“And if I can’t find it?”
“You already know the answer to that. Be correct, Falling Man: your days of freedom are over. We’ll keep you captive if it takes ten years. If it takes a lifetime!”
“Blind confidence will be the death of you, Hodyn worm!” cried Soren. Losien whirled and landed a blow to
his temple, knocking the old man on his side.
The soldier who had struck Caleb laughed. “Didn’t want you to feel left out!”
Losien peered nonchalantly up at the sky. “Dawn comes. We’ll rest here, then begin our journey to … ” he said, and lowered his stare at Caleb.
Caleb swallowed a lump. “Graxmoar. I may find some clues there.” He caught Soren’s glare, and shot, “What choice do I have?”
Blood oozed from a slit near Soren’s eye. “Two! You’ll end up bringing evil upon us without any help from the Prophecy!”
Caleb remembered what he kept hidden in his trouser pocket. You haven’t seen the best of my strange gadgets.
“Shut up, both of you,” Losien snapped. “As for you, Master Raén, be thankful you’re worth more alive than dead. Winter comes, and the coffers of Wsaytchen will feed many of my people.”
♦
After a short rest and a quick breakfast, they gathered their horses and started off. The cloud cover was complete now, the dawn slow. Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared they would search his clothes and find his laser. But a weapon small enough to fit inside someone’s pocket and still pose a threat was beyond their experience. In fact, they might have killed somebody in their ignorance. One sweep of its thin beam could cut a man in two faster than the keenest sword.
Losien paid attention to details: he exchanged Caleb and Soren’s horses with slower ones, and had Warren ride with one of the Hodyn. Horses were a precious commodity among their people, and these were probably stolen from ranchers within a day’s ride of South Grimoa. Caleb, his hands retied crisscross in front to handle the reins, rode behind Soren at the center of the caravan. This included seven Hodyn. The last two riders led a pair of mules, each laden with large water skins and feed for the horses—a clear sign they were headed for the arid, open flatland of central Dernetondé.
Caleb fought to calm himself, to keep from doing something foolish in his desperation. The Hodyn would be on their guard at first. Even with his hands tied he might be able to reach in and retrieve the pistol, but he could never wield it properly. Patience was the key. He had to wait for the right opportunity, even if it took days. Soren was powerless without a weapon of some kind, and rode ahead, his expression hidden from view.