Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1

by E. J. Godwin

  The slow day passed, uneventful. The end of the valley drew closer, and as the Hodyn made camp that evening, Caleb overheard a comment that another day’s journey would bring them out of the brush, where they could make better progress. Caleb offered a few harmless remarks about the weather, seeking to put them at ease. But they only eyed him suspiciously, and he subsided. Brooding silence was more convincing.

  Despite a fitful night’s sleep, when they started the next morning he was alert for any change in their captors’ vigilance. They appeared to have accepted his show of futility, but he tempered his hopes with good sense. Any attempt at escape would be dangerous, even in the best of circumstances. And he had to drop Warren’s guard with the first shot.

  By mid-afternoon the last peak on their right fell behind them, and the bushes thinned out into the hard-baked plain of Dernetondé. Caleb was glad he had waited to act, for now he had an unobstructed view in all directions. Yet still he hesitated. When they camped that night, he knew he had at least another full day before they crossed the flats.

  Soren remained stubbornly unresponsive to any attempted conversation, and the Hodyn kept them too far apart for whispering. It would have been a good idea, Caleb thought now in hindsight, to teach Soren a few words of English.

  ♦

  Caleb woke to the cold sting of white flakes settling on his face. As they made ready to start again, he demanded that they temporarily remove his thongs so he could throw on another coat stashed away in his baggage. They saw no harm in this, but when they walked over to untie him his hands trembled with sudden inspiration. Luckily they merely thought him weak and susceptible to the cold. He gulped down the morning meal, his mind awhirl with plans.

  He mounted, and looked at Soren for reassurance. But the Master Raén sat on his horse in silence, munching the last bit of his food like a cow chewing its cud. Caleb switched his attention to the horse at his right, and saw a young, haggard face dirty with dried tears. Warren had been separated from his father for more than two days. Caleb studied the guard in the saddle behind him, then turned a grim stare at the flat horizon.

  They started off. He waited until the last traces of sleep faded. He placed his bound hands under his coat as if for warmth, keeping them still for a while should the Hodyn grow suspicious and demand that he reveal them. But they said no word.

  The time had come. Be calm!

  Flexing his fingers to restore their agility, he maneuvered his tied wrists over to the right pocket of his trousers, careful to keep hold of the reins. He wriggled one hand in, and his fingers met the butt of the pistol. His heart leaped to his throat. A powerful urge to wait yet another day overwhelmed him, but he mastered it, knowing this might be the last chance.

  Caleb slowly twisted the gun out until it rested on his lap beneath the coat. He turned his head casually toward the mountains, eyes sidling to glance behind him. No one had noticed his movements.

  He fumbled with the laser to work it into position. The continual lurch and sway of the saddle threatened to dislodge the weapon at any second. But at last the muzzle pointed outward between his hands, the butt of the gun in the crook of his right arm. He angled the muzzle slightly to the left to avoid the horse’s mane, then bent his wrist until he could barely reach the trigger with his middle finger.

  Cold sweat drenched his face, and his ears pounded with the rhythm of his heart. He feared to lose a hand, or drill a hole through his wrist and bleed to death. And what would happen to Warren if he failed?

  Gritting his teeth, he pressed the trigger.

  A faint crackle, and the thongs parted with a thump. He gasped, for the shot had burned his skin. Then he heard a scream—not a man’s, but a horse’s. Soren was gripping the horn of his saddle, his horse bucking up and down like a wild bronco.

  In other circumstances he might have laughed. Instead, ready for any advantage, he swung around in the confusion and shot a searing, red line of fire inches over the top of Warren’s scalp.

  The Hodyn brought his hands to his forehead, dead in the next instant. “Run, Warren!” Caleb bellowed, then jumped down and began swinging the pistol in all directions.

  He hoped Soren, who by now had fallen from his horse, had the sense to stay out of the way. The Hodyn rallied around, and Caleb had no time to choose targets.

  He brought them down one by one, alert for anyone reaching for a bow. Their swords were no match for him. All fear fled his mind, and all thought. He was a creature of pure reflex, yelling triumphantly at every kill.

  A quick glance told him that Warren had escaped, running toward a boulder with Soren following close behind. The seventh and last Hodyn dived off his horse and rolled over the hard-baked soil, but nothing could escape the deadly speed of a laser, and his body split in a gruesome spray. It was Losien.

  Caleb extinguished the beam. Horses ran everywhere except Soren’s, who still bucked and snorted several yards away. Blood trickled down the animal’s rump.

  His heart hammering and hands shaking, Caleb stood staring at the results of his deed. All around, bodies and parts of bodies lay flaccid on the blood-soaked earth, ruptured entrails fouling the air until he gagged on it. A few mounds of horseflesh steamed in the cold, magnifying the horror.

  Soren returned, transfixed at the carnage, Warren following. “I have never seen so many enemies slaughtered so quickly by one weapon,” he uttered. At last his gaze fell upon Caleb. “I don’t understand—how can your device burn through the air like that?”

  With tears streaming and bile rising to his throat, Caleb could only shrug in answer.

  “No matter,” said Soren as Warren sped past and into his father’s arms. “You’ve proven your worth again today. Forgive my silence—I shouldn’t have judged you so soon.”

  Caleb slowly caressed the boy’s tousled and dirty hair, accepting comfort as well as providing it. “For the last two days, I’ve only had one thought in my mind: how to save Warren. Every man holds something dearer than any oath or law, Soren.”

  “You still don’t understand the Oath if you believe that,” he replied. “By saving Warren you saved us. You did your duty.”

  Shaken, Caleb turned away from the grisly spectacle. “I’ve had my fill of duty for one day. Right now all I want is for you to be my friend.”

  “How touching. If you be mine, you still have one duty left!” Soren held his bound hands in the air.

  Caleb grinned in spite of himself, and went to find a knife.

  14

  The Stranger

  To take the safest path is to take the loneliest.

  - from an ancient diary found in Léiff

  SOREN BROUGHT back three of the horses without much trouble: his own, Caleb’s, and one of the Hodyn’s. The horse with the laser wound had fled, limping away to the south. The rest were not needed, and too far scattered to bother with anyway.

  Though the Hodyn had confiscated their supplies, the third horse was loaded with enough provisions to last a few days. Their swords were there, too, packed among the baggage. The Hodyn knew a valuable weapon when they saw one, especially the Master Raén’s, a great prize to bring back to Grimoa. With the mules gone as well there was precious little water for the horses, but they were approaching the far edge of the wastelands, and Soren estimated they would hold out until then.

  They sped away, turning directly to the west, Warren on his father’s horse as before, the pack horse tethered behind. Caleb wondered aloud if any other Hodyn would find the bodies. In answer the old Raén jerked his thumb to point behind them: carrion fowl circled in the hazy distance. Though the last trace of the slaughter gradually vanished Soren did not slacken the pace, determined to reach the mountains by sundown. These were the Irenseni, sharp, scattered peaks like hard white horns dominating the western horizon. The Hodyn seldom roamed this far west, and of the Adaiani, only miners or the occasional hunter ever ventured farther north than a day’s ride from Enilií.

  By midday they had reentered the ever-pre
sent scrub bordering the mountains, and they relaxed the pace, stopping to rest the horses more often. Ahead lay a wide gap winding its way through the peaks, with pines scattered along the slopes on either side. But the climb proved long and difficult for their weary horses; days of hard riding and the ordeal of their capture had drained the strength of both man and beast.

  At last the daylight faded to a swath of rose-tinted clouds behind snowy peaks. They camped beneath the cover of tall pines, where a nearby creek twisted and tumbled through a maze of stones and roots. Lighting a fire was out of the question, and what Hodyn provender they had, stale biscuits and tough strips of dried meat (of what animal they dared not think), made for a cheerless meal. Warren alternately nodded and shivered where he sat. Caleb abandoned his futile attempts to get him to eat, and wrapping him in extra blankets laid him down on the soft, resinous carpet of pine needles.

  Preparing his own bed, he asked, “Exactly which way are we headed?”

  Soren was sharpening his sword with a whetstone. “How do you mean?”

  “Is it still your plan to avoid Enilií?”

  He paused. “I don’t see how we can, now.”

  “Aren’t there places outside of town we can resupply?”

  “Not without stealing, or wasting precious time searching.”

  Caleb shrugged. “Well, if anybody recognizes us, they won’t know what’s happened.”

  “You forget we’ve lost at least a day’s travel with the Hodyn. But Enilií has plenty of inns to choose from, and we’ll be approaching down a less-traveled road from the north.”

  Caleb’s eyelids drooped, and he lay down and shivered under the blankets. “After Enilií, then Tnestiri?” he asked after a yawn.

  “And on to lake Oné’en—that is, if we make it through the forest.” He gave his Fetra one last inspection, then slipped it back into its sheath.

  “If we make it through … ah, yes. A mental barrier of some kind, as I recall.” Soren said nothing, and he added, “Or do I have it wrong?”

  “Yes, yes, Gur’alyreiv,” he growled as he laid out his blankets. “It was so named because of the spell of madness lurking along the edge of the forest. I felt it myself once. The closer you get the stronger it grows, until even the most determined run back screaming. We don’t know much beyond that.”

  Caleb’s drowsiness vanished. “What more do we need to know? Or isn’t it really that bad, and you’re just having fun at my expense?”

  Soren grunted, then lay down with his back turned.

  “So that’s your plan—to become totally insane?”

  Soren whipped around in his blankets. “There is no other way! Gur’alyreiv surrounds the whole of Tnestiri, and the mountains to the south, too. Besides, it’s never been known to kill anyone.”

  “No, we’ll just end up in an asylum. But maybe I should look on the bright side: I’ll have a plausible defense in your courts!”

  “You forget I’ve already survived such an encounter. Do you think I’m so reckless to charge into it at a full gallop? Or was the bravery you displayed this morning an illusion?”

  Caleb tried to think of a good comeback, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. You stuck your neck out for me in Udan. The least I owe you is a little more trust in your judgment. Just don’t forget Warren in all this.”

  “You should have thought of that before we left Ekendoré. But we have to get to Enilií first, and for that we need rest. Good night!”

  ♦

  A deep sleep restored much of their strength and cheer. But a long day of riding lay ahead, for Soren hoped to reach Enilií that night under cover of darkness. He quickly led the way down the thick groves on the western side of the pass; their horses’ hooves, silent over the needles, sent huge pine cones tumbling down the slopes. Out beyond the treetops, a dense forest rolled like waves to the distant shimmer of Lrana, a vast lake stretching beyond the northern horizon.

  Yet the sun had barely cleared the trees when Caleb noticed that Soren’s horse had developed a slight limp. Soren jumped down to inspect her and found nothing to alarm him, saying that it was probably just a shin splint. But Tellahur was getting a little old for such long journeys, and the Hodyn, who had lost some of their horsemanship skills over the centuries, had probably made matters worse. So Soren grudgingly admitted defeat and sought about for an early campsite.

  Fortunately Tellahur showed no sign of strain or injury the next morning, and they resumed their journey in confidence. They made a wide sweep around the last peak on their left, and spent much of the day riding through the deep forestlands at its feet. Great russet clouds of towering oaks shut out the sky, and the air was so still they could hear acorns tapping and bouncing through the branches to vanish with a rustle into the carpet of leaves below. When Caleb spoke he almost startled himself with the intrusion his voice made upon the solitude.

  “Are there many forests like this in Ada?”

  “No,” Soren answered. “Most woods in Ada have been heavily deforested over the years. Parts of Tratirené to the south have suffered as well, due to all the shipbuilding in Trethrealm. But there are no trees like the ones in Tnestiri.”

  Caleb tilted his head back. “Larger than these?”

  “These are like children compared to them. It is said that deep within, the trees are so tall their crowns know rain five minutes before their roots.” He shrugged. “An exaggeration, I suppose. I can’t imagine any trees bigger than the ones I’ve seen at its edge.”

  By the time the sun was in their eyes they came across a narrow road. Rutted and pockmarked by horse-drawn wagons, it angled in from the lake to meander through the low hills toward distant Enilií. They halted for a few minutes in the shadows, but there was no one in sight, and Soren urged Tellahur onto the road.

  Though Caleb was grateful to be out of the trackless wilderness, the Master Raén was not so confident. He kept glancing behind, or slowing down when he thought he spotted something, or when a curve in the road blocked the view. Caleb fretted at this delay: they were still at least twenty miles from any of the more populated areas surrounding Enilií.

  The shadows lengthened, and Soren fell back to ride alongside his companion. “I’ve never seen it so empty before.”

  “So that’s what’s been bothering you,” Caleb said. “First you worry about being found; now you don’t like how empty the road is.”

  “You don’t understand,” he replied, too distracted to take offense. “Miners hurry to get their payloads into Enilií this time of year, before the heavy snows off the lake hit. I didn’t expect a mad rush, but we ought to have seen one or two by now.”

  “Hm. Don’t forget we’re traveling in the same direction they would.”

  “Of course I know that. But don’t you think we’d have caught up with at least one of them by now?”

  “Maybe. Or else you’re making too big a deal out of it.”

  Soren shook his head in answer, then urged his horse forward, leading the way as before.

  Presently the road sloped into a long hollow, its trees already shadowed with the evening. Without warning, Soren brought Tellahur to a stop, swept out his Fetra, and brandished it towards the dense foliage to their left.

  “Who are you?” he cried out.

  Caleb followed his stare. A man carrying a large pack had emerged from the shadows between the trees. Sweat glistened across his brow, as if he had been struggling with his burden for many miles. At Soren’s sharp command he stopped near the edge of the road, holding his palms out in appeasement. He was a bit younger than Caleb, and shorter, with steel-gray eyes in a handsome face, and straight, jet-black hair down to his shoulders.

  Soren dropped from his saddle and brought the point of his saber close to the man’s chest. “Answer me! Who are you?”

  “He’s not some kind of enemy,” said Caleb before the stranger could speak. “What in Hendra are you planning to do, run him through?”

  “We meet no one for miles and miles, and he
jumps into the road the moment we pass by!”

  Caleb had to admit this sounded a little too coincidental. He dismounted, instructing Warren to remain in the saddle. “Well, you’re not a Hodyn,” he said to the stranger. “But you’re not an Adaian, either. Treth?”

  The man wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Not by birth. My parents were merchants from Seraboté. They brought me to Trethrealm by ship when I was little.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you were hiding in the woods,” said Soren.

  “I was relieving myself!” the man cried, arms spread to either side. “Now will you please put your sword away?”

  The Master Raén only withdrew it a few inches. “Your name!”

  “Rennor!”

  “Rennor? That is no Trethan name.”

  “I told you, I’m not Treth by birth. If you need to know, it’s from the language of my ancestors. It means wayfarer.”

  “Really? Say something in your native tongue, then.”

  “My birth tongue?”

  Soren thought a moment. “No, Trethan.”

  The stranger hesitated, then nodded. “Haga i strvo’no servinta. Boosh ins el thar.”

  Caleb waited for Soren to speak. “Well? Was it Trethan or wasn’t it?”

  Soren shrugged. “It sounded like it.”

  “You don’t know their language? Why in thunder did you ask him?”

  “To see his reaction.”

  Rennor grinned. “How was it?”

  “I’ll keep it to myself,” Soren replied. “Meanwhile you still haven’t told us what you’re doing so far from town.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m in the employ of the Grand Loremaster. I’ve just returned from a long expedition north of Lrana.”

  Caleb blinked at him. “Who?”

  “What other Grand Loremaster is there? Telai, of course. She sends me to other countries now and then to search for artifacts or ancient documents. I’m on my way back right now to report my findings.”