by A. D. Green
“You seemed well versed in military principles for a priest,” the Black crow told him. “My son would do well to remember this.”
Zoller smiled, he had judged right. “The Red God is Kildare - the Soldier, my Lord. We have some small knowledge in these matters.”
“I will send a company north,” the Black Crow announced. “Anders you’ll lead. Take your command and some birds with you. Ride to the edge of the Old Forest and report on this threat.”
“Father, I’d like to go,” Jacob said.
“Can’t,” Richard replied. “Until your uncle gets here I’ve need of you to help prepare the march south. We leave when Lord William arrives.” He paused, considering a moment then looked again at his son.
“Move the men to Northfields, double the guard as well. Until I know one way or the other we need to prepare for the worst.”
There was a commotion outside. Raised voices could be heard and a brief heavy thump against the doors. “Captain, go see what the seven hells is going on out there,”
Anders moved quickly to the door and opened it. He spoke briefly with the guards outside before returning.
“Father Mortim is outside. Says he's responsible for all Red Priests in Thorsten and you’ve no right to meet with Father Zoller without his consent or attendance.”
The Black Crow’s face darkened. “He comes to my house, shouts, makes unreasonable demands, murders my people and sows discord and disharmony.” He turned, to Zoller. “Father Zoller, my patience for your brethren is gone. Tell me now why did the Cardinal send you here?”
“It’s as I said before my Lord, to resolve matters between you and the church,” Zoller replied without hesitation.
The Black Crow scowled at him. “Agh, just words, I want action Father, else I will take action myself.”
“Lord Richard, let me talk to him. I’m sure I can resolve this sensibly. We Red Priests are not all unreasonable,” Zoller said, uncomfortable with the way things had suddenly turned.
The Black Crow bridled at Zoller before waving him off. “Go, I don’t want to see that man in my keep again unless I call for him. Understood?”
“Perfectly Lord Bouchemeax,” Zoller said bowing his head a fraction as he backed away.
He heard the Black Crow address the woman as he left. “Sorry for my rudeness Marron.”
“It is understandable my Lord,” she replied.
Zoller opened the door and left the room fuming inside. That fool Mortim, what is he thinking? He’s a madman. The madman was stood waiting on the far side of the corridor. He was nursing a bloodied nose and had pinched his fingers over them to stop the bleeding. He glared at Zoller.
“Come, Father Mortim,” Zoller snapped, setting off down the staircase. He made his way briskly out of the keep, leaving Father Mortim to follow in his wake. Mortim, he reasoned had to decide whether to run and catch him up or shout after him. Zoller was a little disappointed when he did neither and simply ambled along at his own pace.
Tuko awaited Zoller outside the castle gates and fell in alongside his master. He glanced back at Mortim as he cleared the gates behind them.
“He looks pissed at you Father. Not been playing nice?”
“Tuko your irreverence is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
“Yeah, but as long as you need me I’ll be okay though, right Father?” Tuko replied.
“So cynical Tuko, you make it hard for me to redeem your soul with that attitude.” Zoller’s thoughts turned to the woman Marron. Something bothered him about her, several things in fact. Her lack of fear, her accent was clearly not local and how she had delivered her news to the Black Crow. It was more like a report not the babbling of a farmer or peasant. He found her most intriguing.
“I have a job for you.” He looked pointedly at Tuko.
Tuko glared back, his eyes bright and intelligent. “I bin in the saddle all day Father, my ass is sore. I could eat a fucking dog and I wouldna mind washing all this dirt and shit off me.”
“If I didn’t know any better Tuko, I would think you were trying to provoke me,” Zoller said. “Now pay attention. I’m expecting a woman to leave the castle shortly. She’s of middle years, dark hair, dressed roughly in brown garb. Not unpleasant to look upon. See where she goes and report back to me on the morrow, first thing.”
Tuko smiled. “Now you’re talking Father, bit a cunt to follow.”
“Tuko, I have told you many times about your foul mouth,” Zoller admonished. “I’ll not tolerate it or your uncouthness. Modify yourself, unless you wish me to set a penance for you.”
“Sorry Father. Sorry for speakin ma mind.” Tuko grinned.
“It’s your foul mind that is the worry. Now leave me.” Zoller dismissed him.
Tuko bowed his head in acknowledgment smiling and looking anything but sorry.
“Oh and Tuko, do not let her see you.”
Tuko nodded, his smile receding. Stepping back he turned away. Zoller stopped to watch him but he was soon gone in the shadows.
“Father Zoller, I’ll see you after morning worship, first thing, in my chambers.” It was Mortim. Zoller kicked himself for stopping. He’d hoped to delay his meeting with Mortim until later, on his terms. Mortim didn’t wait for a response barging past clattering his shoulder against Zoller.
“Certainly, lead on Father,” Zoller replied calmly, biting back his anger. He followed behind considering his rival. Mortim hadn't changed much since he’d last seen him. Physically his body was thicker, his girth twice what it was but his carriage and demeanour were unchanged and he was still the same self-righteous bully he'd been as an acolyte. Was he dangerous? Absolutely, though Zoller did not fear him. If anything, it was Mortim who should be afraid but he was likely too thick-headed to know it.
Zoller sauntered past the church and round the back to the guard lodge and his room, he liked to walk and think.
Chapter 15
: Strange Times
M’rika was in pain. Her ribs were sore, maybe one or two of them cracked, and her ankle was badly swollen.
Darion wondered how quickly she’d be able to move. The river crossing had about done for her and a night’s sleep would not fix her injuries or replenish her strength. He felt cold and tired still himself. And hungry, his stomach rumbled in complaint.
The ilf Darion saw about camp appeared a simulacrum of each other, most a mottled dusky brown in colour. Only R’ell with his added shades of green and M’rika with her light green toning stood out, at least to the casual eye. That all changed when R’ell returned.
With him was an ilf whose leaf skin was a rich autumnal riot of reds and golds with a hint of blue ghosting the edges of each leafscale. He had hair too where the others had none. Well hair of a sort Darion conceded. Green leaf vines sprouted from his head to cascade down his back and frame his face. It was instantly familiar to him and in a strange way made the ilf seem more normal. It reminded Darion of De'Nestarin the only ilf he’d met before these strange times. He’d found De'Nestarin up by the Blue Lakes a life time ago it seemed now. He touched his token as he thought about his friend.
R’ell introduced the ilf as Ruith before easing from the glade leaving the three of them alone. The ilf was old, though Darion couldn’t say exactly how he knew this. Maybe it was the slight bend to his back or the shading of his leaf scale, or maybe even that he had hair. Whatever it was he appeared spry enough.
Ruith bowed his head and Darion nodded in return. The ilf smiled as if pleased, then moved to M’rika knelt and touched his head to the forest floor before sitting back on his heels and waiting.
M’rika stood, wincing as she did and inclined her head. Rising, Ruith circled M’rika. Leaning in, he unfastened R’ell’s cloak and let it fall to the ground. His fingers moved to her body, prodding and probing.
Darion averted his eyes, not sure if he should stay or leave like the other ilf. For M’rika’s part she appeared unconcerned, staring vacantly off into the forest, h
er thoughts clearly elsewhere.
So Darion waited. He wondered where Bindu had gotten to. He’d lost track of the old girl in the river. She was a strong swimmer and he hoped she had made the east bank and taken herself home. If not she was likely dead, for surely if she’d made the west bank Bindu would have found him.
He locked that thought down as the Order taught him many years ago. The many fold box they called it, a visualisation of a room in his mind to place things in. It was a mental exercise, a way of compartmentalising problems and remembering things. Placing his concern in one of his boxes he focused again to matters at hand. Ruith was talking in Archaic and intrigued he turned to watch.
The ilf placed his fingers on M’rika’s body, pressing in over her ribs and chanting softly. Closing her eyes M’rika grimaced before suddenly her shoulders relaxed. Ruith moved his hands in intricate patterns over her torso and after a time moved down to her ankle which, even from where Darion stood, looked swollen and painful. The ilf placed both hands on her foot and M’rika jumped at his touch.
“Sorry K’raal,” Ruith murmured but didn’t relinquish his grip. The ilf chanted again, so quiet Darion couldn’t tell what was said but hearing enough to know the ilf spoke words of power; the hairs on his arms told him that.
Finished, Ruith released his hold and stood back. M’rika lifted her foot rotating it. Darion saw the swelling had gone and she moved it without pain.
“Thank you Ruith. I feel much better,” M’rika said.
Ruith was pleased. “You will still find some tenderness; I have healed your body, but not your mind. That will take time K’raal.” He was weary and a thin sheen of sweat like dew was evident on his forehead.
M’rika acknowledged his words before turning away. She still wore her belted skirt and in the time she bent, gathered R’ell’s cloak from the ground and settled it about her shoulders Ruith was gone.
Darion startled and moved for his sword, his heart hammering in his chest. R’ell had returned again, this time accompanied by a bear. It dwarfed R’ell, its flank as high as the ilf’s shoulder. The bear turned its shaggy head to Darion, a deep intelligence in its brown eyes.
“Peace ilf friend,” R’ell said, holding his hand out palm down. “This is Rawrdredtigkah, of the Silver Lake.”
There was a rustle of leaf from behind and Darion spun his blood racing. M’rika had dropped to her knees. She keened, her shoulders shaking. Her cry grew to a scream. Raw, full of pain it tore at Darion and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. After a moment she subsided, sobbing quietly her head falling to her chest.
R’ell stared at her, his face inscrutable then backed out of the little glade. Darion looked about and realised suddenly he was alone with M’rika and the huge forest bear with the unpronounceable name. Should he stay or go? What of the bear? And why did R’ell bring it here?
Too late, the bear was padding over to him on paws as big as his head. Up close its size and weight was intimidating and Darion struggled, fighting the urge to turn and run. A small dislocated part of him felt awe. The beast was magnificent, its brown spikey fur so dark as to be almost black, its canines the size of Nihm’s hands. Pushing its nose at him it sniffed, then moved past, its bulk brushing against him.
Darion, unaware he’d held his breath, took a sudden deep gulp of air. Backing around the fire he watched the bear stop in front of M’rika. Tiny and helpless she knelt in front of the beast. Her head was down and tears fell like rain drops to the forest floor. The bear spoke and Darion’s eyes went wide. He’d heard the tales of course and the Order had writings, but it was something else actually seeing it, hearing it.
“M’rika dul Da’Mari, I feel your pain child of the Nu'Rakauma. I share your sorrow,” Rawrdredtigkah said.
Darion marvelled. The bear made no sound yet he heard him clear and distinct, the voice sounding in his mind rumbling like thunder, deep and strong. He’d experienced something like this before, with Keeper and the box but there was no time to wonder at it. The bear was speaking again.
“I felt his death and came. If you are able I would hear of his end.” The bear waited.
M’rika composed herself, raising her head slowly. Her eyes were black but still managed to convey her pain. She glanced at Darion. “He is part of my story Rawr.”
The giant bear turned its head and gazed at the man. He stood by the fire with a hand still on his sword and the look of a deer in his stance.
“Sit manling, I will not eat you today, friend of the Ilfanum. Tell me, who are you?”
Darion, conscious suddenly that he gripped his sword, uncurled his fingers from its grip and moved his hand slowly to his side.
“I’m Darion Castell, a woodsman of sorts.” He sat placing the fire between himself and the bear. Not much of a defence but a good habit he couldn’t help but follow. For its part the bear watched until he was settled and then turned back to M’rika.
“Groldtigkah, your son was killed by urakakule,” M’rika said without preamble. “We travelled to Bluskiwadaiak.” She looked across to Darion, “The Blue Sky Lakes in your tongue, the Blue Lakes humans call it.” Turning back she continued. “The lakes are beautiful this early in the wane and we were of a mind to gather wild honey from the hives and see the waterfalls.”
A tear tracked down her cheek but her voice, now that she had started was strong and didn’t falter. M’rika looked at the great bear as she spoke.
“We crossed the Ford at Illgathnack. Grold carried me across. He teased me, said a K’raal should not get her feet wet and I, that he made a fine steed. He tipped me in at that and we laughed. But we were complacent, lazy. We feared nothing in the forest,” M’rika said, bitterness and shame in her voice. “East of the Ford we were attacked. All I remember was a shout, Grold roaring and rearing. I fell back and then nothing.” Her face took on a vacant look.
“When I came to, Grold lay dead and I trussed and bound tight.” She hung her head, shaking it. “They were only four. The biggest lauded it over Grold. Gromma he was named. Another was gutted and lay dying, screaming. The two smaller urak dragged him into the bushes and then he was quiet. After that they argued. Some to kill me, but Gromma wanted a prize for their warchief, Mar-Dur.” M’rika trailed off.
Silence filled the clearing. The bear had listened to M’rika’s tale, unmoving. Slowly, delicate for something so immense, it moved lying before M’rika.
“I should have died, I wish I had. Grold is dead because of me. It was my thought to go to Bluskiwadaiak. Grold was humouring me,” M’rika cried.
“No M’rika dul Da’Mari,” Rawrdredtigkah interrupted. “It is Groldtigkah’s fault he is dead, as it is yours that you are not.”
M’rika crumpled at his words sagging to her knees.
“I do not say this to be unkind,” the bear rumbled, the words resounding loud in Darion’s head. “Grold was killed protecting you, which is right and just. He failed in his duty to protect you, as you failed in yours. His fate was to die for his failure and yours to live.”
Darion was not aware he had risen but he had. The giant bear’s words had hit M’rika like hammer blows. She looked broken, her shoulders shaking silently. He was angry and anger always made him do stupid things Marron told him. He was talking before he could stop himself.
“The lady has suffered greatly, er” what was the damn bear's name again, he thought franticly, “Lord Bear, you do her a disservice.”
The bear was fast. It turned and leapt roaring its defiance in the space of a heartbeat. It took all of Darion’s will to stand there unmoved. He knew on some primal level he was dead if the bear choose to make it so. He couldn’t kill it with his sword, he wasn’t fast enough. If he touched a hand to its hilt he would be dead before he had the chance to draw it.
The bear stopped, its nose was a hand length from Darion’s own. His ears rang and hot breath washed over him. The bear spoke about the same time Darion realised he breathed still. Pleased he’d managed not to piss himself he wondere
d if it was sweat or bear spit running down his face.
“I am no Lord, manling,” the bear snorted. “Your titles mean nothing to me. I am Rawrdredtigkah, matriarch of the Silver Lake. Now sit, be silent, and do not try my patience.”
Darion sat, abruptly. He had faced death a few times in his life but this was the first he’d stared it in the eyes. In some macabre way, considering what he had just faced, he reflected that the bear was female not male and that he had called it a Lord. I’m seven types of stupid thought Darion shaking his head and grinning like an idiot for no real reason, except he was alive still.
Rawrdredtigkah turned and padded back to M’rika.
“M’rika,” the bear said. The ilf raised her head and looked into eyes that mirrored her own grief. Standing silently she wrapped her arms around the great shaggy neck and buried her face into fur.
“Groldtigkah would be pleased that you live. He would not wish you to languish in guilt and shame. If you are not to waste his death then remember him for your kinship and the bond you shared.”
M’rika shook, her cries muffled.
“Every turn you live, Grold lives with you. Carry the shame of living with you but do not let it break you. Let it make you strong. Everything you do reflects on Grold, remember this.”
Darion watched silently feeling like an intruder as they shared their grief. Eventually M’rika pulled herself away wiping her face on her arm.
“Thank you for your words. It will be as you say.” M’rika’s eyes flared then. “There is one urak left. I will hunt him down and end him!”
“Ilf child, revenge is not honouring Grold. Revenge does not belong here with us. You speak in anger and grief,” Rawrdredtigkah said gently.
M’rika stepped back a pace. “You are right. I am angry and shamed. But I am lost as well. What do I do without Grold? I do not see a path before me.”