Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1

by E. J. Godwin

  By the time the day was in full swing the rain had started again, heavier this time. The huge limbs and spreading boughs gathered it into thick, icy drops that plunged down splattering onto their heads as they rode. Within hours all their belongings were soaked, and the incessant plop and smack of these little missiles did nothing to improve their tempers.

  Caleb was happy to let the more experienced Raén lead the way, for it was difficult to navigate in the rain and rising mist. The river to the south might have helped guide them, had not the huge tree roots made passage along its winding banks nearly impossible. Before long it turned sharply to the north, forcing them to ride well out of their way. Soren kept his cool, however, mentioning that the river eventually fed Oné’en, the lake which surrounded Graxmoar.

  A few hours later, the swollen waters turned west again. Chilled and wearied from long hours riding in the rain, they made camp while a few hours of daylight remained. Caleb knew they never would have reached the other side of the forest by nightfall. To their relief the rain stopped, but no effort could evoke a flame from the stubborn fuel at hand.

  Caleb fretted as he laid out his blankets over the cold ground. Suddenly he jumped up laughing, startling the others.

  “Of course! What a fool I’ve been—ever since Udan. We don’t need a fire. Give me that pot of stew Rennor bought in Enilií, Soren. We deserve a feast tonight.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Soren barked.

  “More Earth magic. Stop gaping, and get the stew.”

  Soren shook his head but obeyed, and brought out a large sealed crock of venison stew. It was kept fresh by a method invented by the seafarers of Trethrealm, an art the Adaiani had yet to master: a rare and expensive item. They had been saving it for a really cold night, which Soren testily remarked would be colder than this one.

  He held the crock in his hands, his eyebrows raised in cynical expectation, then noticed Caleb fumbling with the laser. “You have lost your senses!” Rennor, slowly rising to his feet, stared as though equally shocked at the sight.

  Caleb waved a hand to dismiss his fears. “Just listen. I’ll be able to heat it with this thing. Set the pot there on the ground, and move away a little.”

  Soren paused, then with a growl stepped forward and placed the crock on the ground. “If you are rash enough to use your magic in this place,” he said with a quick gesture at the trees, “then I hope that whatever forces dwell in these forsaken woods will know I am not responsible!”

  Now it was Caleb’s turn to hesitate. He looked at Rennor for reassurance, but the man was still staring at the laser. He finally noticed Caleb’s attention and snapped out of his trance.

  “What’s your problem?” Caleb asked.

  “Er—nothing.”

  “Any objections?”

  Rennor glanced at Soren. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to voice an opinion.”

  Caleb grunted softly, unimpressed. He resumed his task, making a few more adjustments on the laser. Then he took careful aim at the pot where it rested on the ground, and fired.

  Soren waited. “Nothing’s happening. Your magic fails.”

  “No,” Caleb said, “only your patience. Keep still, and watch.”

  Without warning the lid popped off with a bang and shot spinning into the gloom overhead. Rennor gasped and fell back, his face peppered with hot stew. Soren leaped for cover, and Warren jumped a foot from the ground where he sat.

  “Um … sorry,” Caleb said. “I suppose I should have loosened the seal first.”

  Soren sat ten feet away, gravy dripping off the end of his nose. “You suppose correctly!”

  “I said I was sorry. Are you hurt?”

  But the old Raén did not answer. Slowly he rose to his feet, eyes searching aimlessly.

  “What in Ada’s the matter with you?” Caleb asked.

  Soren gripped the hilt of his sword. He looked at Rennor, then at Caleb. “Don’t you feel it?”

  Caleb glanced around at the trees. “Feel what? Gur’alyreiv again?”

  Soren was staring at the ground under his feet now, as if it might open up and swallow him. Rennor, oblivious of the bits of stew still left on his face, steadied himself against a nearby tree. Just when Caleb opened his mouth to demand an explanation, the ground beneath his feet began to quiver.

  He pulled Warren to his side and gripped the laser, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Soren drew his Fetra. But there was nothing visible to defend themselves against, and they stood helpless. Soren returned Caleb’s stare with a clear message: he had overstepped his bounds, and now they would pay for his folly.

  The tremors grew. “Let’s get out of here!” Caleb yelled.

  Forty feet away a geyser of soil blew into the air. The shock of it traveled under their feet like a wave. The company stood transfixed, while the horses hauled back on the ropes, screaming. Another quake rocked the earth. As the debris from the explosion fell back down, the ground beneath it began to heave and spill over. Soren gripped his sword, while Rennor backed off, weaponless. Warren clenched his father’s coat in his fists.

  The erupting mound gained height, and began to take shape. At first no more than a haphazard melee of stone and soil, as they watched the mass drew inward, compacting until it formed the unmistakable shape of a giant hand.

  Yet it barely resembled anything made of flesh and bone. Hard knuckles and short, malformed fingers gripped the earth like a vise. Another hand appeared, and a head rose up so covered in falling dirt and rock that its features were difficult to make out. Then with a mighty heave, the creature emerged from the hole and rose to a stand, its squat head nearly twenty feet above the ground.

  It was made entirely of soil and stone. It towered above them, lumps of clay or strands of pebble-strewn dirt falling from its massive body. Trailing ends of roots dangled out at odd angles like the underside of an uprooted tree. Despite a vague suggestion of rock for bone, soil for sinew, its body was so roughly formed that it seemed to have gotten its arms and legs by freak chance rather than design. Only its head still shifted and trembled, as if struggling to complete its transformation to human form. A ragged slit like a mouth appeared, and a pair of rough, deep holes beneath stony brows like black pits of sorrow. Despite his fear and awe, Caleb once again experienced a strange, familiar pity, like an ancient tragedy that somehow tied the fate of this creature to his own.

  Its change now complete, it stood without the slightest motion, as if given birth by the guts of the planet to keep silent vigil for eternity. Then it raised its right arm to point west, speaking with a voice so deep that it shook the ground under Caleb’s feet.

  THE WAY FOR YOU IS WEST. LEAVE NOW, AND REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THIS PLACE. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE.

  Soren stepped forward, brandishing his weapon. “Why are you here? We pose no threat to you.”

  The creature extended a heavy palm, as if to squash the puny Adaian like a grape. YOUR THREAT IS REAL! it boomed. The arm swerved, flinging soil in all directions, and Caleb’s heart skipped at the stony stub of a finger pointed directly at him. THIS ONE, THIS STRANGE ONE. THE DEVICE HE WIELDS IS AN ABOMINATION.

  Now the beast turned his full attention upon Caleb, and took one crashing step in his direction. Caleb gripped his laser, knuckles white, while Soren sprang forward with a cry and hacked at the creature’s leg. Sparks flew as the blade glanced off. What little damage it did to the creature soon vanished, like a hole filled in by the wind and rain.

  The beast slowly turned its head, as if amazed at the man’s stupidity. As Soren poised for another swipe, the creature lifted the stump of its foot and flung him into the air.

  Fear for Soren snapped Caleb into action. Brandishing his own weapon, he aimed a shot at the living tower he knew would cut it in two.

  The giant approached and loomed right over him, unscathed. Caleb stared at the pistol, full of trepidation and shock at its sudden failure. Just as he remembered what setting he had left it on, the creature reached down a
nd grabbed him by the chest.

  As he left the ground the pistol fell away, and he gaped breathlessly as the giant’s stony hand threatened to squeeze the life out of him. Soren gasped and groaned somewhere out of sight. Warren, having lost his hold on his father, shouted and threw everything he could find at the monster. Rennor stared, lost in his trance again. Caleb gripped the massive wrist and gritted his teeth. He had never felt anything so irresistibly powerful.

  It went no further. It held him, on the verge of snapping every rib, hesitant to kill. Caleb beat weakly on the stone and fought for the slightest breath, a rabbit in the coils of a mighty snake.

  It loosened its grip suddenly. Caleb gulped air, filling his chest with agony. The creature stood thus for a long while, as impassive and immovable as a mountain. Then it opened its hand wide, and Caleb thumped hard against the ground.

  He was too winded to dive for the laser, which would have proved disastrous anyway. The giant stooped and lifted the pistol between its massive hands. It seemed to study the tiny weapon as it rested gently on its palm.

  Finally it returned its attention to Caleb. SO THAT YOU KNOW HOW CLOSE YOU CAME TO DEATH, it said and, instead of finishing the sentence, slapped one hand down upon the other.

  A sound like a rifle shot tore through the woods and faded. Tiny stones peppered the tree trunks. The giant tilted its palm, and what was left of the Earthman’s one technological defense trickled down on his chest, barely distinguishable from the graveled earth in which it was mingled.

  DO AS YOU WISH TONIGHT, DEPART OR REMAIN. BUT I SAY TO YOU: IF YOU ARE NOT GONE FROM THIS FOREST BY TOMORROW’S SUNSET, YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE WITH YOUR LIVES.

  After a tense pause the giant began to disintegrate. Sand, soil and gravel slid to the ground like the age-long death of a hill compressed within a few seconds. First the head, then its arms and shoulders, then its chest, torso and legs—until nothing remained but a mound of earth and small stones, a massive, unmarked grave in the fading light.

  Caleb wrenched himself free of the pile, and sat up as Warren came running. Rennor emerged from his trance to help the Master Raén back to the campsite. Luckily the blow had been more of a lifting nature. A thick mat of needles had softened Soren’s landing; only a few painful bruises and welts would remind him of his flight for a few days.

  He pulled away from Rennor, indicating with an impatient gesture that he could walk on his own, and retrieved his sword. He stared at it, his face full of disappointment: it had suffered from its impact with stone. Caleb felt as if his spine had been split like a zipper. But he had no choice but to endure it, and after a few minutes struggled to a stand.

  They all stood motionless, recovering from the shock. Rennor braced himself against a tree again, his face still spotted with food. Warren resumed a tight grip on his father’s soiled coat.

  Soren finally broke the stunned silence. “A curse on me if I stay in this evil wood another night.” He glanced over to see that the horses were still there, twitching and stamping with their ropes tangled from their struggle to escape. “You others do as you wish. My way lies west, at once!”

  His resolve shook them into action, and in minutes they were riding west as the last light of day faded beneath the trees.

  19

  Descent

  Great expectations often spoil the prize.

  - Larai, Loremaster of Besa

  THE BUMP and sway of the saddle shot unrelenting waves of pain through Caleb’s chest. But he endured it in silence as Soren led a determined pace out of Tnestiri.

  The high canopy of trees thwarted the waxing moon, blackening the forest floor to a treacherous maze. Caleb dared not use his flashlight, for he had no wish to challenge the creature again with another of his “abominations.” He couldn’t understand why it had appeared at all when the forest was already so well protected. Such a brutal yet magical beast seemed out of place, not just for Tnestiri but for all of Ada as well. It was as if some mysterious force was at work, one far older than even the first Raéni expedition to Graxmoar. Up until now he had always reserved a little skepticism for Ada’s ancient legends, regardless of his hopes for Kseleksten. Now he wondered if there was more to it than even Telai knew.

  At last the pale light of dawn filtered through the trees. Soren guessed they were nearing the western border. Though they were allowed a full day to escape they had not forgotten Gur’alyreiv, and they hurried forward, hoping to break the evil barrier ahead by sheer momentum.

  Caleb, ever more grateful for Soren’s willingness to lead the way, braced himself when a wall of light shone between the dark columns. But they cantered into the wide and windy expanse of familiar grassland with their horses under full control. After riding a safe distance away they halted in the broadening daylight, and looked back. Caleb could hardly believe their fortune. The forest marched north and south like a battlement, massive and foreboding, yet devoid of any threat.

  Fear had driven them through Tnestiri without rest; now a surge of relief brought their exhaustion crashing down on them. They rode only far enough to find a place out of sight of the forest, ate a small meal out of sheer necessity, then rolled into their blankets and immediately fell to sleep.

  ♦

  They woke abruptly at noon, all at once. A sense of danger had invaded Caleb’s sleep, and he sat up straight, eyes and ears alert. Only when he rose to their feet did he know whence it came: Gur’alyreiv.

  The horses stamped and fretted, and Caleb and Rennor hurried to restrain them. Soren, Fetra in hand, looked to the east. With an Adan curse muttered under his breath, he snapped into a brisk walk toward the trees. Caleb stared in amazement at the man’s audacity.

  He stopped on a low rise, gripping his sword in defiance of the invisible barrier ahead. Caleb watched as the Master Raén struggled to take another step; but he could go no farther. It was as clear to him as it was to Caleb that Gur’alyreiv had grown much stronger, sealing off their escape.

  Soren returned to the others. Far to the south the Erthair glittered in the sunlight, its quick, cheerful waters strangely out of place. It pointed to their destination: Oné’en. Tnestiri was forbidden to them now, but their immediate goal remained.

  They broke camp and headed west, chewing on a few strips of salt-cured pork as they rode. Though their rest had been short and their hurts lingered, they made good speed as the day progressed. The fearful presence behind soon faded, as if satisfied now that they were headed in the opposite direction. A rolling terrain, scattered with thick patches of tangled trees or low scrub, slowly descended toward the blue, wind-tossed waters of Oné’en. It looked thoroughly cold and inhospitable, and Caleb dreaded the prospect of navigating the cresting waves on some rickety raft.

  Soren, tight-lipped as usual, had apparently forgotten their bitter quarrel from the other evening. His relationship with Caleb had resumed an illusion, at least, of its former status. Rennor was more of a mystery. Caleb could not help but trust the man, despite his clumsy masquerade as Telai’s assistant. Even Soren treated him with quiet tolerance now. But Caleb suspected that the old soldier was merely biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to expose him.

  Afternoon passed into evening, and they stopped to camp at the northwestern corner of the lake. As the others tended the horses or prepared the meal, Warren ran up and down the black sand of the shore, skipping stones over the dying waves. Caleb smiled. Though they had left Ekendoré only three weeks ago it seemed much longer. He missed Telai’s companionship, which more resembled a pleasant dream now than a memory. And if he were ever to see her again, what would her eyes tell him—that she still loved Caleb Stenger, the father of the Bringer of Evil?

  The morning dawned cold and clear. Once they started the shore bent sharply to the south, and they caught sight of Graxmoar, a faint gray-blue hump on the southeast horizon. Caleb glimpsed something like a tiny spire or tower atop its round summit, but at this distance it was hard to tell.

  Several dead poplars
stood along the lake, ideal for what they needed, and they halted for the day to build their raft. The island looked too rugged for horses, so they fashioned a smaller vessel, enough to hold three men and a boy with minimal comfort. Caleb worried about leaving the horses, but Soren assured him they would instinctively stay together, and Tellahur would come at his call when they returned from Graxmoar.

  Caleb swung an axe as well as anyone after a little practice, and Soren’s skill at ropes was unsurpassed. Rennor, the odd third man, kept hopping from place to place, more of a hindrance than a help. In time he gave up this pretense and entertained Warren by the lake, while Soren and Caleb hitched the animals to the finished raft and dragged it to the shore. They relaxed for the remainder of the day, lounging in the bright sunshine while their horses nibbled at the cool grass.

  ♦

  No complaint escaped Caleb’s lips as Soren woke them at the first hint of dawn. He hated the idea of riding a raft even more than a relleté, but reaching Graxmoar was too important to let his phobia get the better of him. They ate a cold meal, set the horses free, then loaded the raft with three days’ worth of supplies. The rest they hung from a rope strung high between two trees.

  With Warren planted safely in the cargo, they shoved the raft across the dark shore into the water and clambered on one by one. Caleb and Soren took up the twin sculls. After much fumbling and arguing they maneuvered it in the right direction, toward the faint smudge on the horizon beyond miles of waves crowned amber in the rising sun.

  Morning was well on its way before the mainland shore began to dwindle. Soren grumbled about their slow progress. Rennor sat fore to help balance the weight, but even so the ungainly vessel tipped alarmingly as the waves angled in on the port and aft sides. Caleb, more nauseated by the hour, grappled with the scull until his muscles ached. He endured this wrestling match a little longer, then asked Rennor to take his place. Rennor’s mouth fell open in surprise, but he could hardly refuse, and with a frown stepped gingerly toward the back. He was a clumsy navigator at first. Caleb gave no heed to this, however, or to the Master Raén’s scowl of disapproval, and sat down by Warren to rest.