by Jake Yaniak
When they got to the top of the bridge, however, they were startled to find a great company of armed men standing in a line. Their armor was of leather and wood, their blades were thin and curved, and every one of them carried a bow and arrows upon their shoulders. At least a dozen of them had arrows on strings. Every one of them wore a dark green cloak with a dark hood shadowing their faces.
'Halt!' their leader demanded as he removed his hood revealing a stern face with dark brown hair and eyes. 'You cannot go any further into these lands until we have made certain that you pose no danger to our realm.'
Natham looked furiously around for Duri, but he was nowhere to be seen. 'What will you have of us?' Whately asked. 'We are refugees from the East; we bear no ill will to your people.'
'What are your names?' the man asked, taking a few steps toward them. 'And give me no lies, for we know more about you than perhaps you realize.'
Whately was about to speak, about to give false names in fact, when Natham stepped forward and thundered, 'I am Natham, formerly a hero of the Merkata, and this is Lord Whately, formerly their general. But now we are outcasts, for we know that the Merkata do not keep their covenants. We are seeking refuge in the West; in Olgrost.'
Whately turned white as a ghost; he rightly suspected that these men were Ohhari. 'If they know we helped their ancient rivals,' he thought to himself, 'they will not hesitate to strike us down where we stand.'
But the man lowered his blade and signaled his men to lower their arrows. 'I am Ojun, captain of the guardians of the Ohhari, this land is our camp, not our home. You must come with us, the Elder wishes to see you.'
The guardians parted and made a path for the two travelers. Natham went first, looking this way and that for any sign of his invisible guide. The Ohhari stared with wide eyes as the monster passed.
'You say this land is your camp,' Whately asked, feeling a little safer. 'Yet the path is paved with such stones as one is not likely to find even in Thasbond or Olgalver.'
Ojun said nothing for a few minutes. He seemed to be somewhat uncertain about whether he should be courteous to these travelers or not. Finally he shook his head and answered, 'We have been in this, our camp, for many ages. But it will not be so forever. The stars declare our birthright; the Mountain of Fire. In the meanwhile, however, we do not wish to live like brigands and rogues. We have our cities and our homes, temporary though they be.'
Whately sighed within himself, for their words sound to him all too familiar.
The path continued south for some time, always following the river. After about three hours of travel the river turned sharply westward, leaving behind the old stone road. The Ohhari walked swiftly and quietly, almost as if they were hunting. Soon they came to a place where the trees thinned out, growing both more distant from each other and also larger in girth and height. Such tall trees Natham had never even imagined, having spent his whole life near the Rugna desert. Every now and again they would come to places where several smaller trees of a different kind were grouped together in fours. When they drew nearer they could see that they were actually houses. The four trees served as corner pillars, upholding a thatched roof built. The sides of the houses were made of smooth river stones set in some sort of clay. From several of these they could see smoke rising gently into the air. The further they went along the path the more of these strange houses they could see.
Finally they were brought to a small village about three leagues to the south of the bridge. Here there were many of the same odd houses built in the midst of tall trees. There were also several ordinary houses of log and stone. Into one of these they were led by Ojun. But ere they entered he turned and looked to the ground. 'This is the Elder's house. He wishes to speak with the Lord Whately. The creature, however, must go to the guest house which the Elder has prepared for you,' he said with a trembling voice, not daring to look at Natham. 'And there he must remain until your departure.'
Natham said nothing and just nodded to Whately and took the reins of his horse from his hand. Thus they parted, Whately entering the house and Natham being led away with the horses to the northeast along a small stone road. Ojun remained near the Elder's house with seven of his warriors as guards. The remaining warriors were sent to escort Natham to the guest house and the horses to the stable. None of them dared to look at him or to speak to him. The one who took the lead never looked back, those who were behind only lifted their eyes high enough to see his mighty feet stepping along the road. As they passed through the village they saw people sneaking away at the sight of the monster, hiding themselves behind trees and rocks.
When the horses were tied and fed, Natham was brought to a small stone house. There was already smoke rising from the chimney and the air was very warm when Natham entered. At first the room was filled with the last rays of the western sun. But in an instant the door was slammed behind him and bolted fast, as though that would be sufficient to keep the monster locked away in the house. All that he could see now was the dim dancing light coming out of the fireplace in the corner of the house. There was a bed on one side of the room and next to it on the floor was a pile of blankets and furs, apparently meant to act as a second bed. On a small table in the center of the room there was a great loaf of bread and a bowl filled with oil. There was also a basket filled with dried venison.
Here Natham finally caught sight once more of that elusive spirit Duri, who was invisible to all other eyes. 'Where have you been?' he demanded. 'You might have told us what to expect from these men.'
'Did they hurt you?' Duri laughed from beside the fireplace. 'No, they have fed you. Your bags will be filled with apples from their orchards, dried fish and meat from their smokehouses, and water from their sacred streams. This has been a turn of fortune for you, and it is all my own doing.'
'I still would have liked to have been forewarned when I am going to walk into a group of armed woodsmen.'
'The Ohhari, I am sure, do not frighten the mighty Vestron Monster,' Duri laughed again.
'I am not frightened of them as much as I am frightened for them,' Natham said soberly, 'I cannot always promise to be in control of my passions. Rather, there are passions within me that I cannot claim as my own, yet which drive me with the same force as my own will.'
Duri's countenance changed at once, 'I see,' he said, no longer laughing. He turned his eyes and looked strangely at the lump that lay upon Natham's left shoulder. 'I will never do that to you again.'
Dreamer
Whately was brought inside the Elder's hut almost as soon as the company had led Natham away. The inside was sparsely decorated with a few animal skins and various antlers and horns hung upon the wall. In the main hall there was a fire burning and a very old man sitting on the floor. He rose very slowly when the traveler entered. His long gray hair went down almost to his waist. There was a gleam almost of madness in his eyes as he approached them.
'Come, come,' he said as he approached them. 'Tell me all that has transpired in the East, in our ancient homeland.'
He led Whately to the fire and bid him be seated. There were no chairs so he had to kneel on the floor beside the old man. In a moment, bread and dried venison were brought out on trays along with a pitcher of milk. There was oil and butter for the bread and some berries to sweeten the salted meat.
'I am Horas,' the old man began, 'I am the Elder of this village, and a Dreamer. The spirit of these woods, whom we call Boscus the Noble, came to me in a dream some time ago and told me of your coming. He said that great deeds were being done in our homeland. I pray you, therefore, tell me all that you have seen and done in the blessed land of our fathers.'
Whately hesitated for an moment, but when he saw in the man's eyes no insincerity or envy, he started explaining to him all that had transpired in that region. He started with what the Merkata had told him of Vestron's ancient history, and how they had been driven from Fhuhar by the Harz Nobles. This the old man listened to with great interest, asking many questions abo
ut the history of the Merkata. 'They were always better story tellers than scholars,' the old man sighed at last. 'We put a great deal of trust in the hands of our historians and our elders. The Merkata, however, have always had their Lady to instruct them. Of course, our own histories inform us that she is the greatest storyteller of them all!' The old man laughed for a good while before he was able to speak again. 'Did she tell you that Fhuhar was once her own kingdom?'
'She did indeed,' Whately answered. 'But I have the feeling that your own histories say otherwise.'
'According to our historians, she was always the Queen of the Desert. The seat of her kingdom was in Oblindin, never in Fhuhar as the Merkata now believe.'
'I had suspected this much,' Whately said, 'In my long imprisonment among them I noticed that the engravings, I mean, the really ancient engravings were not the work of the Merkata. They told of deeds, heroes and gods that were wholly alien to the Merkata.'
'Indeed,' Horas nodded, 'In the ancient days, Fhuhar himself walked among us. That is why they call the Mountain a god; for once upon a time, a god dwelt there. He was the mightiest of all the Ohhari. He was our protector; he and his queen Saila ruled from the city that the Harz call Thasbond; which I apprehend you know well enough. But in his strength he grew careless; and in his prosperity he grew complacent. Before long there was turmoil throughout the kingdom. The Queen of the Desert made raids upon the Ohhari, but the gods did nothing to stop her. Strife arose in every quarter as the Merkata pushed in against our southern borders. Also, in the north, the goblins and the pirates appeared from whence no one can tell. Truth be told, Fhuhar's reign was in its twilight, long before the appearance of those Nanthor Barbarians, those Harz Nobles as they called themselves.'
'Then Queen Malia is a liar?' Whately asked, 'She never did rule in Thasbond.'
'Oh she did,' Horas laughed, 'in a manner of speaking.'
'What do you mean?' Whately asked, always curious about historical matters.
'In her own mind she is convinced not only that she ruled from Thasbond, but that she was wed to the mighty god Fhuhar.'
'Then she is mad,' Whately said.
'Perhaps,' Horas said, 'But some call me mad as well. When I was a small child, my great grandfather was still living. He was convinced that he had fought in a great battle against the Vestri and even sacked the city of Penflas, which lies seventeen leagues to the south of Olgalver. What had really happened, they say, is that he and his companions routed a band of Harz warriors and pursued them to the very gates of that city. Just inside, my great grandfather, it is said, fought the famed Lord Huhn in single combat. He cut off the head of the Harz Lord and shouted a challenge to the entire kingdom of Harz. 'Nandos!' he cried (as we are wont to call the Harz when we are impassioned) 'I call you to account for your crimes against the sons of Fhuhar! Come and taste my revenge!' At that instant, seeing a great number of warriors approaching, my great grandfather's companions took to flight, and dragged him along with them, kicking and screaming curses and mad rants at his enemies.
'You must see how vivid a memory this would create within his mind. Along with this memory, he would always carry around his regret. He felt ashamed that he had left, and never spoke a word of it. He wished that he had fought more; he wished he had gone to Penflas with a larger host; he wished that he had done many things differently. In the end, he spent more time imagining what might have happened than he spent recalling what did. You see? His imagination became stronger than his memory, to the point that preeminence was given to the former in his thoughts.' He paused for a moment and looked at Whately, 'I am sure that a man of your age has had many regrets as well.'
Whately laughed.
'I certainly have had my own share of disappointments,' Horas said. 'When I was a young man, my beloved, whose pure soul awaits mine in the other world, was terribly insulted by another man. I have always felt ashamed that I did not avenge myself; I only consoled her and kept her away from him. When I spoke of the matter with others I always put my own behavior in the best light, hiding my weakness and my cowardice deep in my memory. Before long I was leading people to believe that I had done more to guard my beloved's honor than I had. In time I began to notice that I mixed in what I wish I said along with what I did say; and slowly but surely I began to change the story. Now the events I wish happened shine out more clearly to my aged mind than the events I know to have happened.
'The Lady of the Merkata,' Horas concluded, 'Is much like the rest of us, full of regrets. But hers are very deep and ancient, and her imagination has labored for aeons to convince her that all the things she should have done, she did do. She always hated the goddess of the Ohhari, wishing it were her own white arm intertwining with the arm of mighty Fhuhar. She was always enamored with power, as I apprehend she is to this day. She loved our great god with a passion so deep and terrifying that it can hardly be uttered. This led her to a blind war against our people. It was always the goddess Saila that she sought to destroy; she wanted to take her place.'
'To come to the point, however,' Whately smiled, 'She is mad.'
The old man laughed heartily, 'Madness is not always born of sin,' he said soberly, when he had calmed down a bit. 'Madness is as often born of grief, which the Lady had, or so it is told, in excess. But of that tale, very little is known. All that is known of her comes from Fhuhar's doctrines, which are as old as they are vague.'
'Tell me about them,' Whately asked, his curiosity overtaking his exhaustion.
'According to the most ancient of our histories, before the gods descended from heaven and took up their place among us mortals, Malia was the bride of the greatest of all gods. The Merkata named him Amalu, which in their tongue means simply 'Light'. But during their descent they were separated from one another. We Ohhari have long taken this to refer to her raven black hair; the blackness being what is left when Light and Righteousness depart. But in a very literal sense, it would reference the rending of her own soul from that which she loved and lived for. The Ohhari believe that this is the cause of her madness and wrath. According to some of our storytellers, Malia's lust for power was born out of her love of the Powerful. Her madness seeks to reunite itself with her beloved, the shadow of whom she recognizes in all things of might and strength. That, I imagine, is what she sought after in you as well. Might in counsel, and might in arms. Otherwise it is inexplicable that she would allow you to command her people in war.'
They spoke on for another hour or so, until Horas sighed and stretched his arms over his gray head. 'It is night,' he said, 'and now I must now sleep. I bid you farewell, for the laws of our land do not allow us to grant travelers welcome for more than a night, and to allow one as monstrous as your companion to lodge in our woods, a hero of the Merkata no less, is an exception that will most likely not be repeated ere the world's end. You will be led away in the morning, and I will not see you again in this world. You must not return here, for I am very old and I am the last Dreamer of the Ohhari. The other elders call me a madman for my dreaming; they would not permit you to enter into their own lands. But I told them I would accept you without hesitation on the word of Boscus. At this they called me a madman yet again. The Elders, Jikhan and Guera went as far as to declare you, the helpers of the Merkata, to be enemies of the Ohhari. Were it not for my great age and my long labors among our people I would not even have been permitted to have you here this night. My counsel could not prevail against them for any further grace. They gave condescended to the voice of Boscus in the end, however; for all the Ohhari are servants of those who dream of the Noble spirit. When I have been taken up to the stars there will be no more among the living who can listen to the spirit of the woods, by whose grace you have been admitted.'
That night the two travelers felt the closest thing to warmth that they had felt in a long time. Great blankets of fur and deerskin were given to them and there was a small stove that gave off a good deal of heat. Though it tore at his heart, Whately knew that they must lea
ve that peaceful village and continue their journey into the west. Accordingly, he gave no protest when the guards arrived at the door to wake him. Natham was already awake and had left the house hours before the sun arose, breaking the lock with ease. He sought out their horses, scaring the stable-man almost to death, and brought them back to the house. He was, perhaps as eager to leave as the Ohhari were to rid themselves of the strangers. The Ohhari had long been hunted by both the Harz Nobles and the Marin of the west. Pinched between two enemies, they gradually grew more and more elusive and suspicious of outsiders. They lived in peace now, for they lived in a place that was all but inaccessible to their foes. But in older days, when they entertained the hope of attaining a larger kingdom or even of returning to their ancient home, they had suffered many terrible defeats. Now they hid away, all but forgotten by the outside. On occasion, however, some bold man of valor would lead them into combat with the Vestri; men such as the great grandfather of Horas, who meant to take all the forest cities out of the hands of Thasbond. But such designs were always short lived. Not able to look to their own strength for hope, the Ohhari turned to the stars and interpreted them as prophesying their return to Vestron in power. But that goal seemed to them almost as distant as the stars themselves.
By the time the morning sun was fully risen the two men, along with their horses, had been led away from the village along the very same path they had taken upon their arrival. Ojun was once again leading them, though this time with only three other warriors. When they came to the place where the river had left the path they suddenly turned west and followed along its southern bank for several leagues. The trees grew thicker and the path narrower with every step it seemed. Soon the land rose up into great ridges that towered above them on their left and the river fell away into a gorge on their right. They had to walk in single file for almost three hours, leading the horses carefully along the narrow road. Finally, when the sun began to wane, Ojun led them up an incline toward the south and then, reaching the top of the ridge, he brought them west and south along a winding trail. They descended like this for the rest of the day and set up camp in a clearing near the bottom of the slope. From there they could see, in the failing sunlight, a much flatter country to the west, tall mountains to the north and, much closer, jagged mountains to the south. 'The difficult road is what preserves the Ohhari,' Ojun said at last, when they had set a fire and eaten. 'Many ages ago we had cities here. Maja and Zefeneth, both of them are ruined now. We challenged the might of Marin and were put to shame. Such was the folly of our ancestors. Now we seek wisdom from the stars, for the wisdom of our fists has been lacking since the days of Fhuhar. They meant to exterminate us, even as the Harz intended, but we survived in the deep valley where our enemies cannot come in force.'