“Toulereau?” Grit asked, scratching his head.
Shar’ran nodded with vacant eyes. “…My rebel son…”
Grit looked confused.
X’all leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Ask no more. I will tell you all about it later. It is a bit of a sore subject…”
A young dancer rushed up and handed Grit a large glass of elven wine. She spun and twirled, dancing for him.
Kayla frowned.
Shar’ran leaned over, his lips brushing her ear. “You will need to keep him on a leash now that he is Tala’fein. Many will seek his…ah, attentions…”
Kayla shoved him back. “Like mom had to keep you on a short leash. I believe you have more than a few daughters running around the realms.”
Shar’ran grinned. “Yes, I do. When we get to Three Rivers, I intend to make amends with one of them.”
Kayla threw her nose in the air indignantly and grabbed Grit’s hands pulling him close. “You do not get to follow the elf way do you understand? You are mine, just mine!”
Grit nodded, seeing the serious expression in her eyes and hearing the tremble in her voice.
Grit turned to Shar’ran. “When can I leave to find them...my friends, I mean?”
“Tomorrow, if you would like.” Shar’ran said. “Your time here is at an end. You are now free to leave.”
Grit’s mouth dropped open. “I couldn’t leave before?”
X’all crossed his arms and muttered, “Only if you could swim back the way you came.”
Grit gave X’all a curious look.
Shar’ran laughed at the comment.
X’all scowled and stepped away.
“What’s wrong with him,” Grit asked, bobbing his head in the direction of the old elf who was walking away muttering to himself, throwing his hands in the air.
Shar’ran watched the old elf go. “He needs some time to get used to this new leadership arrangement. The comment was meant more for me than it was for you…”
Grit nodded. “I hope I didn’t do something to offend him.”
Shar’ran cracked a weak smile, “Nothing you could have avoided…”
Grit’s face filled with worry.
Kayla squeezed his hand. “It will be fine in a few days,” she promised him.
Grit wasn’t so sure, but he dropped the subject and moved on.
“But don’t I also need to be here to get trained on all this elf lore, battle techniques and leadership rules?” Grit asked.
“Then I will go with you,” X’all said. “That way we can train you and at the same time…help you find your friends.”
Shar’ran nodded. “I will go too, as will Kayla. We will be joining you.”
Grit was surprised that they volunteered.
“I will go too,” echoed a voice to his rear.
Grit turned around and smiled into the face of Val’aer.
Shar’ran led Grit by his hand to the center of the platform. There, on the floor, were five large sheets of rice paper.
“It is time for you to dance. Do not worry. The spirit of Aaron will guide you. Grit stepped onto the paper and looked over at Elliæ who was scowling at him. Grit swallowed hard and looked out amongst the faces of the entire clan as they waited for him to dance.
Grit walked out into the center of the paper, stopped and turned around. Not a single mark was on the paper.
“Aaron help me…” he prayed under his breath.
“Do not worry,” the voice in his head said. “Dance!”
Grit began to move as he did the dance of the blades. At first he danced empty handed, but within seconds, he found his hands filled with the twin scimitars he had been presented. They glowed bright red and left trails of light as he swirled them in intricate patterns while jumping as if being attacked by five or more assailants. He danced for several minutes before he stopped. When he finished he looked down at the unblemished paper. And even Elliæ smiled with a wide toothless grin.
They met in the center of the village the following morning. Grit was dressed in new leathers as were Kayla and Val’aer. Shar’ran wore a well-worn set of leathers and X’all wore nothing but his bakree. X’all hugged his son and assured him that he would return.
Grit picked up one of the small packs that were placed by their feet by the women of the village. He hefted it over his shoulder and adjusted its weight. He had his new staff and his scimitars, having decided to leave the sword in the village.
X’all cursed under his breath.
“What is it?” Grit asked.
X’all shook his head side to side. “I never thought I would be showing a wizard the way in and out of our valley. We have been hidden for a dozen centuries.”
Shar’ran gave X’all a shove. “You are such a sentimental fool.”
X’all grinned. “The old ways are hard to leave behind.”
Shar’ran grinned. “Grit is one of us. He has earned the right.”
X’all reluctantly nodded. “Yes, he has. Do you trust him?”
Shar’ran nodded. “With the future of our race!”
X’all met his eyes.
And with that, the group turned and headed toward the far end of the valley.
The Sickness
A voice in his head shouted at him to wake up. He tried to push it away, but it only yelled louder.
“You must get up and move!”
“Bal’kor, listen to me…move”
Bal’kor waved his hand near his ear, as if he were chasing away an irritating fly.
“You will die if you do not move.”
Bal’kor knew it was his mother talking to him. She was the only voice he ever heard in his head that he could understand.
“But I don’t care…I’m so sick….” he groaned.
“You cannot give up! You must push past this and live.”
“I don’t have the will…” he wailed.
“I died for you…” she said.
That caught his attention. He opened an eye and peered out into the darkness.
Bal’kor knew he was sick from the moment he awoke. Actually, sick didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. The horizon spun as he tried to push himself erect, and his stomach churned. Every joint in his body ached, and the cuts and bruises from earlier in the day were tender and starting to fester.
His breath came in raspy gasps as he staggered to his feet. Awkwardly scrambling, he rolled over and pushed himself out of the hollow he had fashioned for himself beneath the large evergreen. The needle covered ice wasn’t cooperative. Bal’kor was already panting and dizzy before he stood erect. He brushed the snow from his clothes, as best he could, with numb hands that wouldn’t respond to his commands. Eventually, he gave up. His body heat had melted the snow and fused it to his clothes; only the leather seemed to clean sufficiently.
It took every ounce of willpower for him to take that first step down the mountain…but he did. Another coughing spell struck. He clutched at his chest and coughed up deep-yellow phlegm. His chest ached so bad that tears streamed down his face as he fought for breath in the icy mountain air.
“Keep breathing,” the voice encouraged.
It was a struggle to stay focused, as his vision blurred and twisted. He stumbled along the rocks, fighting for his balance, often dropping to a knee. The spear he had carried down the mountain now acted more as a crutch; he leaned heavily on it for support.
His sleeve was already crusted with the green goo he had wiped from his nose. It leaked continuously. Every few steps he suffered another coughing attack and double over until the episode passed, purging his body of revolting gunk that had clogged his chest. The thick, slimy, fluid slid down the edge of his face, mixing and freezing with the tears that wept from his blurred, snow-blind eyes. Clutching at his sides, he felt waves of alternating hot and cold flashes wrack his frame, causing him to rue the day he had been born. The shivering started not long after he stirred, and now…he shivered uncontrollably for what seemed like minutes at a
time. Meer seconds later, he felt his blood boil, causing him to consider stripping naked and running head-first down the slope seeking a quick end to his misery.
He continued his numb, mindless, march farther down the mountain and into the pine forest. The deeper he went, the warmer it got; soon the snow was just a trace on the forest floor and his feet felt the padding of the bed of dead pine-needles, accumulated over many years. He inadvertently stumbled upon a small brook, stepping in it before he saw it; the delirium clouded his mind. He fell to his knees and drank deeply.
He walked for what felt like hours, following the small brook, stopping every so often to force himself to drink. After quenching his thirst, he washed the snot from his beard and face. The cold water felt good on his throat, but his face was becoming raw and chapped.
Winter was coming here, pounding on the door—wherever here was—and there was much to do. The growing season was at an end and the gooseberry bushes were still full of fruit. The leaves were changing colors on the aspens that filled in the space between the pines, where enough sunlight could get through to nourish them. Already the sumac has turned brilliant red, and the wintergreen and holly was orange, soon to be a dark-burgundy. He reached down and grabbed a handful of dried berries and nibbled on them as he walked, feeling his cheeks quiver as the berries popped and the tart, sweet juice caused his mouth to salivate. It was hard swallowing because his throat was thick.
Bal’kor wondered how long the fall would last. He prayed that the second summer was still ahead, knowing that he would need the time to prepare for survival, if he survived the next few days at all. If the second summer was past, he reluctantly admitted to himself that he would not likely survive the winter. The decision of what to do would be out of his hands and his only viable option would be to hazard travel south or across the mountains, looking for a small settlement. It seemed desperate to him and he pushed the thought out of his head.
Mice and squirrels raced around trying to prepare for the long cold season ahead, he could hear them chirping and chittering above. He had little training in survival, only the time he spent helping the Gatherers of the Keep. It served as punishment for bad behavior. A thin smirk crossed his lips. When he thought about it, he had spent many excruciatingly long days being punished. The irony was that he should have the necessary skills, but he hadn’t really been paying attention; he surmised that he would have to improvise to the best of his abilities, and pray that he would remember crumbs of what they had tried to teach him. He had often been told that learning and making mistakes were all part of the process. He snorted at the thought. In the real world, some lessons were very costly; he would pay a steep price for not paying attention—perhaps death. He did remember the most important lessons. He knew that the first thing he needed to find was water, the second was shelter. He followed a stream.
Bal’kor’s meandering trek crossed a small game trail and he immediately notice that it was filled with signs of animals. Falling to his knees, he ran his hand across the firm dirt and could pick out deer tracks, rabbit and some kind of clove-hoofed animal…wild-pig, maybe. Without really make a decision, he diverted from his previous direction and wandered down the animal path.
He happened upon a person-sized fallen tree to one side of the path. The ancient monolith had toppled when its roots rotted away, or mayhap when lightning fractured its structural integrity. Whatever the reason, it now lay splayed across the ground with moss overgrowth and new tree fingerlings sprouting out of a trunk that slowly decayed. The moss there was deep and soft. Bal’kor inspected it and knew it would make a comfortable bed for the night. In that instant, he decided to make his first camp there, against the fallen tree.
Bal’kor circled the area, gathering a few dead branches from the ground and leaned the largest against the log before weaving some sticks and ferns over the top. He finished by layering the top with the large arms-width leaves he found growing in the forest, trying his best to overlap them. They were leathery, hard to cut…even with his knife. He pushed himself erect and stood back admiring his workmanship. Well, it’s wasn’t pretty, but it was far better than sleeping wrapped around a tree!
A quick filling of the shelter with pine burrows is all he had energy for. He used his jacket like a bucket and scooped armfuls of the needles from the ground and carried them back to the shelter, and using his feet, pushed them as far into his new accommodation as he could. The deep of night quickly approached and he could feel the temperature drop precipitously. Freezing to death was not an option; he knew he must finish the shelter. The coughing hadn’t subsided and he knew he would pay a penalty for the exertion. At times, it felt like his lungs were on fire. His breathing was irregular and small puffs of mist trailed every breath. He rubbed his frozen hands together and continued working.
He finished his shelter. It was a heap on the ground on the leeward side of a fallen conifer, but to him—it was so much more! He crawled into the pine-needles and tried to get comfortable, but he was way beyond the point of really caring about comfort. His only concern was if it would keep him warm enough to survive the night.
A storm blew in late in the evening, waking him from his stupor. Bal’kor heard it begin to rain and a scowl filled his face. The sound of the drops hitting the leaves lulled him back to sleep. At times, Bal’kor could hear the storm raging and the wind howling, but from under the branches and without moon light he could see very little. He slipped in and out of consciousness, awakened only by the loud crashes of thunder and brilliant flashes of lightning.
A loud crash brought him to consciousness, and his sleep-encrusted eyes shot side to side in the pitch black. He relaxed. Slowly, the rain had worked its way through to his thin clothes. He was going to be soaked by morning, but at least he was out of the wind and the branches held in most of his body heat. All-in-all, the shelter did its job.
He listened to the sound of the rain bouncing off the ground and dripping through the pine trees. He knew he needed to start a fire, but he couldn’t find the energy to attempt, let alone care about it. The mesmerizing sound of the rain lulled him back to sleep.
Bal’kor’s eyes snapped open in the wee hours of the morning. He was cold wet, and still exhausted. The air was still; it sounded like the rain had stopped, so he awkwardly pushed himself out of his shelter.
He was very cold and knew he had to start a fire. He stomped his feet and rubbed his arms and hands, trying to get his circulation going. As soon as he could feel his fingers again, he tried using magic, but it failed as expected, forcing him to use his knife. He wondered why it was that he could see the spells and do everything right, but the magic stopped at his hand. If he could figure this out, he would be able to work the magic as well as the wizards of the Keep. They used the Zylliac, he did not. His magic was old, ancient magic. The beast itself had told him so. He searched around the camp for rocks that spark, testing them one-by-one. After several attempts, he found one that sparked strongly when hit with the back of the blade. Bal’kor would never use the front of the blade; he had too much respect for the metal.
Bal’kor dug around, trying to find dry moss and was successful, finding some in the crook of the tree under where he had been laying. He pulled it out and wadded it up to use for tinder. He hammered the rock causing sparks to fly in all directions; all directions but at the moss. Bal’kor swore at the gods.
Minutes later, a spark caught and his small smoky fire started. The fire laughed at him, he could hear it; he just couldn’t understand what it was saying. It’s was not much, but the warmth of the small fire gave him hope. He was fortunate that there was dry wood to be found under the thick canopy. Only the top surface was damp from the short shower. He huddled, and rose up on his elbows in front of the burning branches, wishing he were back in his warm room at the Keep. Anger filled him and he cursed his stupidity at being so easily lured into this situation…by a girl demon, of all things. His uncle was going to be furious with him. He could already hear him curs
ing, shaking a finger in his face and smell his bad breath from too much mead. He would consider himself lucky if Ja’tar didn’t force him to do dishes for years.
He warmed himself and managed to dry most of his clothes. He crawled back into his shelter and finally fell back to sleep, succumbing to exhaustion.
The next day he awoke with a fever. He shook and trembled, cycling between hot flashes and being freezing cold. Bal’kor dug deep into the shelter he had made of branches and slept on and off throughout the day, slipping in and out of consciousness.
By morning he felt much better. An entire day of rest had helped and even his cold seemed a bit better, although he was still hacking up phlegm. Bal’kor reasoned against moving his camp and almost immediately decided to spend the morning making his shelter more secure, using bigger logs to make a larger lean-to; he also gathered a good supply of relatively dry wood for his fire.
After he finished that task, he ventured out, foraging for food. Moving from bush to bush, he picked wild blueberries and small gooseberries. A smile spread across his face when he happened upon a patch of morel mushrooms and he picked several. He knew that if he misidentified the mushrooms, he could die. He pulled his knife out and sliced the mushroom in half. The stem was hollow. He smiled, because he knew the false morels had meaty filled stems. He lost track of the time and wound up farther away from his shelter than he should have and evening was quickly approaching. The sounds of the forest began to grow menacing.
Bal’kor worked his way back to his camp as fast as he could, but the sun had already set. He cursed at himself for getting caught out at night coming back from foraging. A silver-gray mist started to rise. At first, it crept along the ground, whisper thin, but as time passed, it thickened, and seem to take on a life of its own.
Then it started. He saw dark shapes rising up out of the mist; heard high pitched sounds like screams and hissing. Goose flesh formed on his neck and arms. It was already too late when he got a clear view of what rose from the mist. The sight filled him with abject terror as he saw an approaching wraith. It terrified him beyond comprehension, causing him to break out in a cold sweat and sending chills down his spine. Bal’kor knew what they were from his studies with Zedd’aki and he turned and ran for his life.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 39