The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  He kept quiet on this subject though, fully intending to take the matter up with his father upon return to the camp. When they arrived though, Lorn did not have the chance as things were already packed and being loaded on to their horses. He stood by his father and watched mutely as cinches were tightened and bridles double-checked by Tarim, who always insisted upon doing these things for himself, no matter whose job it was or how well it had been done.

  Lorn turned to his father. “There is no way they will remain?”

  His father shook his head slightly. “The young girl is as much a seer as the old women, even if she has only recently come into her skill. She has as much right to travel as to stay.” The old man turned to him, gripping him by the shoulders gently but firmly. “My son, Zya has brought into the open something we have feared about for generations. There is something beyond the mountains that is seeking to thwart the old law, but it is not natural. Someone seeks to turn men to do his bidding, but for his profit only. This has never been the case, and is more worrying to me than anything I have previously heard.”

  He turned away and chuckled to himself. “What is it?” asked Lorn.

  “We get the youngest new hunter in practically the entire history of our tribe, a seer who could spice up the elders and a carpenter without equal, then just as soon as they get here, they leave, and on top of that, my son wants to leave with them. What a mess.”

  Lorn's breath caught in his throat, and he felt his stomach constrict. “Want to leave? How did you know? How did you know this? I have told nobody of this wish, for a wish I know it to be.”

  His father smiled gently, putting an arm around the younger man's shoulders. “Never underestimate the old, son. It was obvious to anybody who looked at your face as you came back what you wanted to do. I give you a choice now, and think on this a minute for your decision will stand until the end of your days. I can let you go with her…with them, but if you choose to go, my son, I would have you renounce your hereditary position in favour of one of your cousins, to be decided by me. If you stay, you will one day be chief of the tribal council. That is your choice.”

  The old man looked at his son with gravity in his penetrating gaze. Lorn understood what it meant for his father to have given him such a choice. It had hardly ever been heard of that a son not succeed his father, but it was not a unique situation. Long ago, one son had taken the choice or renouncing all claims in order to take a band of hunters against the dark magic in the mountains, but little was known of that story, save that none ever returned. To suddenly be given the choice of freedom from responsibility when that was what he had craved for so long was an upheaval in his mind to say the least, but he knew what he would do, for he had decided long ago, should he be given the chance he would take it.

  “By your leave father, I will go with them,” he replied, and something in the old man seemed to break with his words, but was just as quickly hidden in the emotionless mask of his wind-beaten face.

  Only a slight increase in the moisture around his eyes gave any betrayal of his emotions to those who would notice. He grasped his son in a rough bear hug. “The Gods be with you, Lorn. May your path lead to fortune and enlightenment.”

  “Who will you choose?” asked Lorn, ever curious.

  The old man thought about it for a second while the wind whistled by in what suddenly seemed a much colder day. “I think your cousin, Daren would best fit the mould you have left. He has almost as much sense as you, and isn't as fractious as some of the younger ones. Besides, he is a hunter like you, and I would have none but a hunter succeed me as chief of my people.”

  Lorn approved of his father's choice. His cousin lacked ambition, but his mind could be swayed on that count. His cousin was also extremely responsible, as his father had said. “He will do well,” answered Lorn behind a stone mask, devoid of all emotion. He could not give in to any emotion at this point. He wanted to leave with them, and he knew he was attracted to Zya, enough, that she alone would make him want to leave. But after years of having responsibility drilled into him, he was afraid he might start to see it as the easy way out. Guilt, it seemed, was his biggest enemy.

  The day wore on, and as news of what Lorn had decided filtered through the camp, people came, singly or in pairs to see him, while others came by with advice or parting gifts for the others. They were well equipped, and would have no trouble making it as far as any town on the coast. Zya disappeared into the maze of seers' tents, and when she eventually reappeared she was clad in her riding garments again.

  Red nickered a greeting as she approached, and she stroked his neck in reply. Mounting up, she looked down at the small group of old women who had accompanied her. “When I understand what is out there, and how we may stop this evil from spreading further, I will send word to you of what can be done.”

  The foremost seer nodded in agreement. “It would be well for such things to happen. We are closest to the boundary in the spring. That is when things should be done if there is anything we can actually do.”

  “Then look for somebody to reach you in the spring, honoured mother,” replied Zya. The old women turned as one and left the area, bound for their tents.

  Tarim clasped forearms with the old chief, who said, “The gods speed you on your way, and may they grant the blessing that you will return safely.” The old man then turned to his son and hugged him one more time. “I may not see you again, Lorn,” he said quietly. “I am a grand age for one in these parts, and I know not when, or even if I shall see you again, my son.

  “I shall look for you as I may, and pray to all of the Gods that I see you one more time. Your mother would have been proud of you.” The old man clasped his forearm in the way of the hunter, and turned to walk slowly back to his tents.

  Lorn mounted up, sparing himself the need to see the single tear streaking down his father's face. For he knew that he would let go of many himself – his eyes were brimming and he kept them closed, away from everybody but himself.

  * * *

  Tarim looked around at his small group. Ju was mounted on a horse he had come to call his own, and with his bow sticking up from behind his fur cape, he looked quite the tribal hunter.

  “Are we ready?” Tarim asked of them all. Seeing looks of agreement, he turned without further speech and led the way out of the camp. Lorn did not want to look back, but when they reached the ridge to the West of the wide valley that had been the home of the tribe for so long, he could not help but turn and look once more. Hoping that he would one day crest the same ridge to return to his father, he turned his horse away, and followed after the others.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sky was dark, almost black in places, where the cloud was overburdened with too much moisture, but the rail never fell. Instead, the continual grey moved slowly, ponderously, never relinquishing its load. The moisture in the air was obvious, for while there were no hills of remarkable size in the area, just before the land met the horizon, one could see it lighten with the mist-like vision that the damp air created. The occasional bird flew by in the distance, not bothering to land. Quick and black they were, carrion birds for the most part. Any trees that grew were stunted and rarely had leaves at this time of year, but those that did swayed in the unending breeze from the North. Those that were tall enough had form that bent almost unanimously to the south, so that they spent less energy striving against the breeze of the North.

  As with all the buildings in this part of the region, it was a trait common to all who lived there. Venla had grown used to such things in the timeless semi-haze that she had endured since being made captive by the brigands. She worked as a servant for them, carrying, washing, and cooking, with practically no thought as to her own welfare. It had been made obvious at the start, when the man she had learned was in charge had struck out at Anita, and left her there for dead. There was no point in arguing with him, for he would not hesitate to do the same to her.

  He had contempt for life that bordere
d on the sadistic, and delighted himself in savaging anybody who disobeyed him, captive or subordinate. A fairly large man, O'Bellah was blatantly a bully, and continually proved himself to be. Had she been more alert, Venla would have seen his own men step as carefully around him as one might avoid a poisonous snake, poised to strike, but she was not ready to emerge from her self-imposed shell as of yet. She knew that the others who had been taken had been assigned similar tasks, and that the men were busy making weapons, but she had no idea where they were.

  Venla wallowed in self-pity over the loss of her caravan; her responsibility. Had she taken but a moment to step back and look at herself, she would have realised that she had become everything she was not: miserable, dejected and without any self-belief at all. The key to it all was that she missed Layric. Her husband had always been a rock upon which she could depend. His calm influence with the rest of the caravan was always reassuring to depend upon, and now he was the Gods only knew where.

  She scrubbed away at clothes dumped in a pile by some nameless person whose job it was to gather them from outside the tents of the soldiers, and somehow return them to the very same people. These were the people with the worst bruising and other such wounds, for the soldiers were not gentle, although nothing compared to O'Bellah. Why there was ever a need for such a gathering of people was confusing to her. They accomplished little, and yet people form the countryside were being brought in every day. The number of servants seemed to almost swamp the armed men set to guard them, a fact which was not practical.

  Whispered questioning had hinted to Venla that a lot of these people were firm believers in the Old Law, as was she, and she wondered at the need for gathering up such people. What could a group of farmers and country villagers possibly do to threaten an armed force? Yet they were treated almost as hostile enemies by the ruffians, and almost cowered away from them. Venla bent her back to her task, for there was nothing she could do until she at least found out the reason for this gathering.

  The answers began to trickle in a few days later. Venla had been assigned cook's duty, courtesy of some loud -mouthed braggart who barely looked out of his teens, despite his phenomenal size. The youngster had shouted her awake from her blanket – the only protection from the cold she had was no protection at all when it came to the addition of a steel-toed boot. He would have dragged her had he not tripped, cursing over another sleeping body. So barely awake, Venla found herself stirring a cook-pot of barely stewed vegetables and who knows what else. By pure chance, it was the food assigned for the slaves, for they were no more than that. So it was not long before a few faces began to materialize out of the distant queue.

  Venla did her utmost to keep her eyes down and concentrate on doling out the watery stew as Jani moved ever closer. The next time she looked up, she found him standing right in front of her, dish held out, and a look in his eyes that instantly made her forget any doubts she had had in herself.

  It was a rather odd look for Jani, but his face seemed filled with suppressed excitement and anticipation. He leaned forwards as she scooped him out a helping of the stew. “News, mistress. I will find you.” he whispered quickly, and was on down the queue, to be replaced by a farmer's wife, who looked like all of the rest, depressed, except for the querying look on her face as to why the man in front of her had had cause to stumble into the stew-cook with nothing on the ground to trip him.

  It turned out that Venla did not have long to wait or think about what this news could be. Walking quietly and keeping out of the way so as to not draw attention to herself, she had to pass a row of high-walled supply tents. A hand covered her mouth, and another grabbed her waist, half lifting and half dragging her into a cleverly concealed gap that had been opened in the corner of one of the tents. Before she had a chance to cry out, she was turned around, and found all of the remaining members of the caravan in a small gap behind stored crates.

  Quick and silent hugs of relief were bestowed upon Jani, Ramaji and Gwyn. Venla looked sharply at her companions, ensuring herself that they were all in good health. A little drawn perhaps, but nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't repair.

  “How safe are we?” Venla whispered in hushed tones.

  “As safe as any place in this encampment from hell,” Gwyn replied in tones as hushed as her own.

  “The regulars don't come anywhere near here, so far as we have seen.” By using the word 'regulars', Gwyn referred to the soldiers who found it too demeaning to do actual physical work when they could bully a captive into doing it instead.

  “All well and good,” Venla replied to that, and then bid Gwyn to continue with what he had heard of events, astounded by the things that she had heard.

  According to the talk amongst the soldiers around the forge, where he had been working on swords, this encampment was but one of many across the plains of Ciaharr and northern Ardicum. The reasons for these encampments were clear to none, but rumours hinted at a great treasure. Venla had noted that such rumours always included some sort of treasure. It appealed to the basic nature of the common man, and those with nothing better to do in their lives often flocked towards anyone with such a promise.

  Another rumour had it that although O'Bellah was in charge of this camp, he was not behind the entire movement. Those who had enrolled had seen him as the ultimate authority, but the occasional man had also seen him sweating and shivering, almost cowering before someone in the deepest shadows of the night. It was commonly acknowledged that he was much more vicious towards those he could bully after such encounters. As to their goals otherwise, they had been ordered to detain certain people.

  Venla's hand rose to her mouth in shock as she heard the description. Any man, woman or child who seemed tall and dark, with long straight hair and a confidant demeanour was to be searched out. They were reportedly travelling west. Venla did not believe in coincidences, and she thanked the Gods that Tarim and Zya had seen fit to leave the caravan before they had come anywhere near this mess. Zya had foreseen all of this, and had felt the misery from leagues away, and now they were caught up in the middle of it all. That there were other people like them may have been a coincidence, but the opinion was voiced by Ramaji that it could betray their origins. Venla knew this to be different. Only her and her husband knew from where Tarim and his daughter had come, and they would reveal this to nobody. The discussion, almost muffled within the confines of crate and tent, then moved onto who was left free.

  Venla decided to step in here. “There will be one choice for mistress, if recent events are anything to go by. Anita will be chosen should she be able and willing, but should that not be the case, Mavra will be chosen in her stead.”

  Jani and Ramaji looked stunned for a second, never having believed their daughter would be capable of such an undertaking.

  “How will she fare?” asked Jani.

  “Difficult to say,” Venla replied.

  “The girl shows some of the qualities necessary, and there is a lot more steel in her than at first glance. She will have Layric's backing if chosen, for he knows the rite of choosing as well as any man, and the guards understand enough. There have been younger mistresses chosen, but not many. I can honestly say that Mavra will not want to do it, and will curse her situation, should she be chosen. But I think she will pull through, and would make us all proud.”

  At that point voices caused them to cease their conversation. They sat there in the muffled dark of the canvas tent while what appeared to be half of the army walked past their stores. Jani risked a peek out of the cut through which they had entered to see that while it was not as many men as they had feared, still it was a lot. The men spoke excitedly about something and were hastening to one side of the camp. By the looks of them, they had dropped everything to go to wherever they had been called. The voices died as the men moved off, and everyone in the tent breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  “What was going on out there?” Gwyn asked of Jani.

  “I know not, my friend. But what
ever it was had that lot all excited enough to not notice me peering out of the tent. It might be worth us going to have a look.” They looked in the direction of Venla, still willing to accept her decision despite the obvious lack of a caravan.

  She nodded curtly. “Go find out what it is. If we are to escape this place and find our families, then we must find out any information that will aid us.” She looked around at the ragtag gathering. “I am proud of you all, my family. You brought a woman back from the edge of despair and reminded her that there are more important things to focus on. I trust you will never let me forget that again.

  “Gwyn, if you find out anything you think will aid us, try to get word to me. I will not interfere in how you are running things. They seem to have a liking for putting me in the kitchens. It would probably be best if you find me there doling out the food.”

  Gwyn nodded his assent, and then slipped out at the tail end of the procession of soldiers with Jani close behind. A quick hug of reassurance from Ramaji, and Venla found herself alone in the dark, surrounded by crates and musty canvas. The confidence of her friends had reminded her that she had a responsibility. This put firmly in perspective her other troubles, which were merely trivial. She vowed she would never become disparate like that again.

  As the remnants of the sun passed into the west beyond the horizon, the crowd milled around out front of O'Bellah's tent. Word had spread that finally they were going to be told the reason for the gatherings that had occurred across the countryside during the summer and autumn. Word also had it that their commander was going to explain a few other things. Restless and impatient to a man, many considered pulling aside the covering of the tent and getting an answer out of the one who had brought them together, but all of those men, bullies and cowards all, lived in fear of what would happen to them.

  Many of the gathered dregs of humanity knew what it was like to hold fear over some poor innocent, and had done so, as they were young in most cases. Only now they knew it from a different perspective. A bully who has been bullied is often a broken animal, but not a tamed one. Many of them had been personally broken at the hands of O'Bellah. That was the reason nobody directed more than impatient looks at the front of the tent. A ripple of cloth had men looking toward it, but it was merely Thrasher checking attendance. Thrasher had gained his name as a mock sign of respect: He was usually the hands of O'Bellah, and was deemed almost as merciless as his master. His fondness for the flail he always carried had earned him his name, almost as much as the scars on the backs of slave and soldier alike.