Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  She had angered him, and it was the last thing she wanted. A Greimasg’äh’s discontent would not sit well when it came time to present herself to Most Aged Father. She stood up, taking a deep breath.

  Most Aged Father had given his word. If she succeeded, she would be an initiate, and this eased her worry. After all, she had been given a purpose for the Anmaglâhk. She reported directly to a Greimasg’äh, one of their greatest. As far as she knew, no initiate had ever done this before.

  Avranvärd hurried out before the hkomas missed her. As she emerged below the forecastle, half the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, dusting the ocean with sparks of light. When she stepped farther out and glanced upward, Sgäilsheilleache stood gazing down at her with unblinking eyes.

  For an instant, Avranvärd could not take her eyes from his. Then she scurried off toward the stern, where her hkomas waited beside the helm. But Avranvärd could not shake the sight of Sgäilsheilleache’s steady gaze.

  • . . .

  Twelve more days past their southward turn, Magiere paced the deck, wearing her new coat and avoiding the rail-walls.

  She should’ve felt grateful to be traveling by sea instead of land. But surrounded by this living ship, her thoughts wandered too often to the dead marks her hands had left upon an elven birch tree. Awareness made the vibration inside her sharpen to a shudder. She laced her fingers together, smoothing the lambskin gloves over her hands.

  The season had passed into late winter, but at sea and just beyond the shore of the Elven Territories, it seemed colder.

  Wynn sat on the deck talking softly to Chap—something they did more often these days. Leesil and Osha were still below, though Leesil was much improved. He ate almost normally, and as Sgäile had suggested, he was acquiring his “sea legs.” Not that Leesil didn’t still grumble and whine now and then.

  Yes, Magiere should’ve been grateful. The Blade Range separating Belaski and Droevinka from the continent’s eastern coast was impassable. She would’ve had to trek all the way down through Droevinka amid its civil war, then crossed the Everfen’s vast swamplands into the Pock Peaks to reach the eastern coast. The journey would’ve taken another season, more likely two.

  And yet Magiere was helpless to speed up their current pace.

  She had suffered two more dreams of the six-towered castle on its snow-blanketed plain, and being blown through the night sky. With each dream, the pull south grew stronger. The only thing missing from those recent night journeys was the black-scaled coils circling about her.

  The hkomas called for a stop at each harbor settlement, and Sgäile kept recounting the importance of this vessel. Dockhands unloaded supplies onto large skiffs, which were transferred onto inland-bound barges. The stops always took a day or more.

  Several times, Magiere asked to go ashore. Any short reprieve away from the ship would’ve been welcome, though it meant walking on elven land again. Sgäile refused each time, claiming their presence would cause discord in any an’Cróan settlement. Magiere knew he was right, but it didn’t help.

  She forgot herself in frustration and almost grabbed the rail-wall. Even with gloves on, she panicked and jerked her hand back at the last instant. The unnerving sensation she felt aboard this strange living vessel was less severe than what she’d suffered inside the elven tree dwellings. But this time she knew what her touch could do. The last thing Magiere wanted was to inadvertently draw life from the ship or injure it in any way.

  At times, Magiere had to bite down to keep from shouting at the hkomas to sail more quickly.

  “Yes, it is,” Wynn said loudly. “Why do you always argue with me? I can clearly see mats starting on your haunches.”

  Magiere turned her troubled gaze on Chap and Wynn. The sage fished a brush from her pack, but Chap rumbled, swinging his rear out of reach.

  “There is plenty of rope about to tie you up,” Wynn warned, “like any other dog.”

  Chap wheeled and made a run for it.

  “Get back here!”

  Wynn snatched hold of his tail as her brush clattered upon the deck. With a yelp more indignant than pained, Chap swung his head over his shoulder and bared his teeth.

  “As if you would dare,” Wynn growled back.

  With a lick of his nose, Chap dug in with all fours and lunged away.

  “No . . . wait!” Wynn squealed.

  She flopped forward on her belly, refusing to let go, and Chap’s paws scrabbled on the deck as he gained momentum. Wynn’s eyes popped wide as she slid along behind him.

  Magiere sighed, starting after them. “Stop it—both of you!”

  Then Chap rounded the back side of the cargo hold’s grate.

  Wynn flipped onto her back, still hanging on. Her little body whipped around the corner behind the dog and then rolled, swinging sideways toward the stern. Chap’s paws scrabbled wildly as her weight suddenly threw him off balance. He flattened hard on his belly with a grunt, his legs splayed in all directions.

  Both sage and dog spun across the deck. With a last yelp from Chap, they tumbled askew toward the aftcastle’s wall. Magiere panicked as the two collided into a stack of coiled rigging rope and spare sailcloth.

  Wynn sat up quickly, thrashing about as she tried to untangle herself. Chap rose on three legs, attempting to shake the fourth free of a knotted loop of rope.

  “You two . . . ,” Magiere called out. “Stop acting like a couple of—”

  “He started it!” Wynn yelled.

  Chap shot a yip and snarl straight into her round face.

  “Yes, you did!” Wynn growled back through clenched teeth. “And I have not brushed you since we left, you . . . you pig!”

  She grabbed Chap’s tangled leg and began jerking on the knotted rope to get him free.

  An elven crewman leaned over the aftcastle above them.

  Magiere caught sight of him just as he vaulted the rail-wall. His booted feet hit the main deck as he dropped directly in front of Wynn. The sage stiffened with a sharp inhale. Before she could move, the man snatched her by one wrist.

  His amber eyes filled with anger as he jerked her up, until she almost stood on her toes. He hissed one quick string of Elvish at her. The only word Magiere caught was “majay-hì.”

  Chap twisted around and snapped at the man’s shin, but the rope cinched tight around his leg and pulled him up short.

  Magiere vaulted the hold’s grate, shouting, “Get off of her!”

  The tall crewman’s hard and lined face turned toward her as she swung.

  The back of Magiere’s right knuckles caught his face, and she bored her left fist into his gut. He buckled, and one foot slipped from the deck as he careened back into the ship’s rail-wall.

  His grip on Wynn tore loose but jerked her against Magiere’s shoulder. Magiere tucked her arm around the sage to catch her. Sunlight intensified all around Magiere.

  The world turned searingly bright. Her eyes began to tear as her irises expanded to full black.

  “Magiere!”

  Sgäile appeared beside her with Osha right behind, holding off the angry sailor. The hkomas slid down the handrails from the aftcastle.

  “He grabbed Wynn!” Magiere snarled and pointed at the sailor, trying to gain control before her dhampir nature spilled out.

  “I saw,” Sgäile answered quickly, “but you must stop this!”

  The sailor struggled up, flailing off Osha’s grip with bitter words. He shook his head, blinking rapidly. Blood trickled from the split skin over his cheekbone.

  Wynn grabbed Magiere’s arm, her small hands gripping tightly.

  Chap appeared, lunging to the cargo grate’s edge. He snarled and snapped at the elven crewman. The anger washed from the man’s face in sudden shock. Even Osha backed away from Chap in wariness as the hkomas cautiously slowed his approach.

  “Enough!” Sgäile said, and followed with a long stream of Elvish.

  “What’s he saying?” Magiere asked Wynn.

  The hkomas answ
ered as rapidly. Other crew members drew closer, putting aside their duties as they listened in.

  Wynn stepped around to Magiere’s side, whispering, “The sailor thought I disrespected a majay-hì. Sgäile is telling them that this is only a game Chap and I play.”

  “That’s how he explains this?” Magiere snipped, anger rising again.

  The number of elven voices increased, but Sgäile stood firmly in front of Wynn and Magiere, and Osha remained rooted before Wynn’s assailant. Chap watched in silence, but did not back away.

  “He also told them no one is to touch us,” Wynn added, “and that he would take such as a sign of disrespect to him and his oath of guardianship. It must never happen again.”

  Magiere eased a little, and when Sgäile glanced her way, she nodded to him.

  The hkomas looked frustrated, but he grabbed the angered crewman and pulled him away, shouting at his crew. All began slowly returning to their duties. In spite of Sgäile’s declaration, a few cast puzzled glances at Chap—and Magiere caught more hostile ones tossed her way.

  She didn’t care. Let them come at her, if they wanted.

  Sgäile turned to her. “You will leave such problems to me!”

  “There won’t be any problems,” Magiere spit back, “if they keep their hands to themselves.”

  “How often must I remind you,” Sgäile returned, “all of you, that you do not understand our culture and ways. Your ignorance and continued lack of heed for my—”

  “They understand us even less!” Wynn cut in.

  The sage’s sharp tone startled Magiere.

  “For all the time you must have spent,” Wynn added, “sneaking about human cultures, perhaps it is time you and your people learned some tolerance . . . before jumping to rash conclusions. Bigotry betrays your ignorance.”

  Sgäile was stunned voiceless, but resentment surfaced quickly through his stoic features, signaling an incensed reply on its way. Wynn gave him no opportunity and pushed past him.

  “Come, Chap,” she said. “Let us check on Leesil.”

  Chap hopped down to follow her, his head swinging as he watched the crew with twitching jowls. But as they passed Osha, Wynn brushed a hand lightly across his forearm and spoke softly.

  “Alhtahk âma âr tú.”

  Osha eased with a soft smile and bowed his head.

  It wasn’t hard for Magiere to understand Wynn’s words as thanks.

  Sgäile cast one last hard glare at Magiere as he headed up the aftcastle stairs.

  Magiere merely snorted and turned toward the ship’s side, not satisfied enough to go below and take her eyes off the crew. But her gaze settled on the open sea ahead—south.

  Night after night of pushing his ferals through the mountains left Welstiel weary of the constant vigilance required to control them. But they had to reach the eastern seacoast, hopefully well ahead of Magiere.

  He longed for a solitary existence. Dawn approached, and he stood watching as Chane set up tents for the day. The cold rocky range was harsh and held little life, and the sky seemed interminably dismal even at night.

  Each time Welstiel scried for Magiere’s position, she had moved an impossible distance southward, closing on his own trajectory to the coast. Sometimes she seemed not to move for several days. This confirmed his suspicion that she was traveling by ship, making port calls along the way.

  Chane proved useful again, finding rock outcrops or solitary stands of thick trees in which to pitch tents and keep their band safely under cover. He made tea every few nights, and eventually succeeded in getting the ferals to drink it—after setting an example a few times. Welstiel could not get them to do anything unless he gave a direct order. But Chane’s sullen demeanor had increased until he barely spoke at all.

  Welstiel did not care, so long as his companion helped keep the ferals moving. And they were quickly reaching the point of needing a fresh kill.

  The two younger males shifted restlessly on hands and feet, sniffing the air in eager, unfulfilled hope. The elderly woman paced among the massive boulders surrounding their camp, and whispered aimlessly to herself. Her emaciated, silver-haired follower stayed right on her heels.

  The curly-headed man crouched on his haunches, rocking on the balls of his feet at the camp’s edge. Sometimes his eyes rolled in his head over a gaping mouth. Once, when Welstiel looked away and then turned back, he found that one watching him intently.

  Only the young dark-haired female, whom Chane had insisted was worth saving, retained any hint of reasoning. She never spoke but often assisted Chane in setting camp or building fires when fuel could be found.

  Welstiel was exhausted by perpetual vigilance, and he too was feeling the pressing need for life force. Normally, after feeding using his arcane method, he functioned comfortably for nearly a moon. Perhaps the potions with which he drugged himself, or lack of dormancy, or maintaining control over so many, had taken their toll on him. He felt as if he were starving.

  Welstiel dug through his pack, searching for the brown glass bottles filled with life force taken from the living monks. When he found them at the bottom, he tensed, reluctant to even touch them.

  Aside from his white ceramic container in the box with the brass cup, he found only two bottles. There should have been three. None of the ferals knew his feeding practices—only Chane.

  Welstiel rushed to the nearest tent and ripped aside its flap.

  Chane sat inside, beside the young female, with a parchment out, and he was showing it to her.

  “You have taken something of mine,” Welstiel said.

  Chane’s own pack and canvas sack rested beside him. He reached into the pack without hesitation and pulled out a brown glass bottle.

  “Here,” he rasped, and tossed it up at Welstiel.

  Welstiel caught it. He did not need to pull the stopper. He could tell by the weight that it was empty.

  “Did you drink it?” he asked.

  “No,” Chane answered.

  He turned back to pushing the parchment in front of the woman, but she looked at it and then him, as if unsure what he wanted from her.

  Welstiel’s confusion increased. The ferals knew nothing of his artifacts or the contents of the bottles. Chane finally dropped the parchment.

  He pushed past Welstiel out of the tent and stood up, eyes hard as he pointed to the elderly woman and her silver-haired companion.

  “I fed them. They needed it.”

  Welstiel remained still, absorbing those calm words. Chane’s past disobediences had normally been restricted to foolish risks involving Wynn Hygeorht. This was more blatant, and a sign that Chane had forgotten his place.

  A lesson was required.

  Without a word, Welstiel strode across camp with dawn glowing along the eastern horizon. He headed straight for the elderly female.

  She saw him coming and backed against the massive stone outcrop rising from the sloped bank above their camp. Her gaunt companion clutched at her leg in fear.

  “Be still!” he commanded. “All of you!”

  Tendons in the elderly woman’s neck protruded as her body went rigid. Her eyes widened as Welstiel jerked his sword from its sheath. The crouching man began squeaking helplessly.