Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  The two elves kept as still as trees with their hands sunk just below the water’s surface. Their blond hair hung loose across their tan shoulders.

  Osha dropped sharply, his arms spearing deep into the water.

  He straightened, droplets spraying off his wet arms, and a flat gray form thrashed in his hands. He waded quickly toward the beach, and when the foaming surf receded to his shins, he flung the captured flounder onto the gravel.

  “How many?” he asked in Elvish.

  Wynn started and then hurried over to the pile. “Um . . . eight.”

  But Osha had already waded back out to Sgäile, and they spoke too low for her to hear over the surf.

  Wynn kept staring. Osha seemed different—less awkward, almost graceful in the undulating water, catching fish with his bare hands. He turned back with Sgäile and they waded toward her and stepped smoothly out of the surf.

  Wynn fidgeted with a strange nervous energy, as if Osha were a stranger. Half-dressed, with the ends of wet silken hair clinging to his shoulders, he looked so . . .

  “What is wrong?” he asked.

  Wynn swallowed. “Nothing . . . um . . . we will never eat all these tonight.”

  “There are ways to make it last longer,” Osha answered with a smile.

  He and Sgäile began pulling on their tunics. Wynn looked away until they finished.

  “Can you carry our cloaks?” Osha asked and, without waiting, he snatched up the remaining catch and headed off after Sgäile.

  “Of course,” Wynn answered, but as she crouched to pick them up, she spotted Chap.

  He was squatting on the gravel, watching her intently, and then glanced once after Osha before wrinkling his brows at her. A heated blush spread over Wynn’s face.

  “Just keep your muzzle shut!” she said and quickly bundled up the cloaks to stalk off.

  Back at camp, Leesil had started the fire and already boiled water for tea. Magiere leaned against the fallen tree. She faced toward the south.

  Sgäile and Osha set to cleaning fish over a hole they had dug in the gravel. Once done, they buried the waste and spitted several fish to roast over the flames. They hung the rest of their catch higher above the fire’s rising smoke. Osha produced a small pouch and pinched out a green powder. He rubbed this all over the hanging fish.

  Chap whined and licked his muzzle.

  “Not long now,” Sgäile said.

  “Why so much?” Leesil asked. “The extra won’t smoke or even dry fully by morning.”

  “Yes—they will,” Sgäile answered. “Osha is using powdered cl’leichiojh.”

  “Woodridge?” Wynn asked. “The tree growths Osha showed me on our journey through your land?”

  Sgäile nodded.

  “Hold on,” Leesil cut in. “He’s rubbing fungus all over our food?”

  Sgäile shook his head. “It is edible and has astringent properties. We must build food stores before reaching the high range Magiere seeks.”

  Magiere continued staring south, her features intently drawn. Her fingers kept clutching and scraping absently upon the dead tree’s gray wood. Wynn exchanged a glance of mutual concern with Sgäile. Fortunately the water reached boiling, and they set to making tea.

  For the first time, Wynn was genuinely glad Sgäile had chosen to come with them.

  And Osha as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Welstiel had rested through the day in the makeshift tent Chane had rigged among the beach-top trees, but he had not fallen dormant. He still possessed enough elixir to keep him conscious for many days, so he’d merely remained quiet until Chane and the ferals roused. Now the monks crawled to their hands and knees around him. Despite their long swim, their tabards were still bloodstained.

  “She has a long lead,” Chane said. “Likely traveling all day.”

  Welstiel knew Chane’s true thoughts were not fixed on Magiere but rather on his little scholar, Wynn. Such a trivial matter did not deserve attention. He left the tent and walked through the growing darkness down to the gravel beach, to crouch and pull out his domed brass plate.

  “Straight south,” Chane said, standing over him. “Between the Blade Range and the ocean, she can only follow the shore.”

  “For now,” Welstiel responded.

  He stood up, not liking having Chane at his back, and decided not to scry for Magiere. It would be pointless so early in her journey. His main concern was to follow her closely enough not to miss any major course change—and yet keep his group beyond her or Chap’s range of awareness. A fine line to walk.

  The monks clambered downslope, sniffing the shore air.

  “Have them pack up,” Welstiel said. “We will start as soon as they finish.”

  Despite recent events, he believed himself in a good position. Still unaware of his presence, Magiere was moving onward.

  The sister of the dead will lead you.

  Of his former patron’s taunts, this one phrase held true. He would allow her to lead, without needing to rein her in under his control.

  Two ferals mewled softly in agitation. Jakeb began slapping a tree with his hand and then motioning southward. Sabel grabbed Chane’s arm.

  “Chhhhhaaan,” she slurred, and dragged Chane a short distance past Jakeb’s tree.

  “What is it?” Welstiel asked.

  “I do not know,” Chane answered. “Their senses are stronger than mine, even when . . .”

  He fell silent, his nostrils flaring wide as he looked off through the trees.

  “Life?” Chane whispered. “They could not be so close and . . . wait . . . it is gone.”

  Welstiel hurried over. Chane’s sense of smell was more developed than his own, but Welstiel doubted Magiere could be this close—or could she? His concern turned to anxiety.

  Had she or one of her companions been injured? Or had something else delayed her? He could not allow Magiere to learn of his group’s presence; she must not have warning.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Keep the monks quiet. Get them back in the tents if I do not return by dawn.”

  “By dawn?” Chane asked in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “Do as I instruct!”

  He pushed past along the rough forested slope, staying clear of the beach. If Magiere was ahead, his ring would hide him from her. He caught only glimpses of the ocean as he worked his way south. Then he began sniffing about for himself, until he finally picked up a scent.

  He crept on, and the odor sharpened more frequently on the unpredictable ocean breeze twisting through the foliage. Then it seemed to surround him from within the trees, and he halted, peering about with his senses fully opened.

  Life-blood filled his nostrils, but it was different and faintly familiar— earthy and rich, yet less musky than a human’s. He closed his eyes, with the scent filling his head, waiting for a triggered memory . . .

  Of the lower levels of Darmouth’s keep.

  A tall figure clad in a green-gray cloak carrying another over his shoulder.

  Welstiel opened his eyes.

  He smelled elves.

  He stepped onward, and the scent broke and faded in the breeze. So he reversed until it strengthened once more. And yet he saw nothing. He turned all the way around.

  They were here—he had to be right on top of them.

  Hkuan’duv heard footfalls on fallen leaves as something approached from the north. It was still a ways off when he tapped his companions awake. He swiftly motioned them into the dense heights of the nearby pines and evergreens, and they climbed and vanished from sight.

  He stood watching north, and when he saw as well as heard movement, he backed into the depths of a thick fir, melding against its bark. He pushed up his face wrap until its edge slipped over his nose, and then tilted his head down so his cowl shadowed his eyes.

  The stillness of thought is a silence, unheard and unnoticed.

  The silence of flesh leaves only shadow, impenetrable and intangible.

  This was
how Eillean, Léshil’s grandmother, had once tried to describe it, as she sat with him one long night in Crijheäiche. So seldom had they crossed paths. And that night, two Greimasg’äh attempted to describe the mysteries of silence and shadow. In the end, they merely chuckled at each other—for who could truly put such into words?

  Hkuan’duv loosened his cloak and pulled its folds around himself. He let his mind clear, becoming nothing but an empty vessel filled by what his senses perceived. Sinking into a quiescence of mind, body, and spirit, he let the shadows embrace him.

  A stranger walked straight through the spot where his comrades had rested moments ago.

  Pale-skinned, even for a human, the man’s dark hair was marred by white patches at his temples. His well-tailored cloak was shabby and his boots scuffed, as if he had walked countless leagues. The man stopped and sniffed the air.

  He turned a complete circle, wandered the sharply sloped little clearing, and then returned to its center, scenting the air once more. He came so close that his shoulder brushed the branch tips of the fir Hkuan’duv stood within.

  The man’s eyes glittered softly, his irises nearly colorless.

  Without moving, without thought, Hkuan’duv drew air through his nostrils. A stale scent, devoid of human sweat, lingered beneath the odor of the fir.

  Welstiel smelled more than one elf—three, maybe four. The scent hung in the small clearing, waxing and waning in the shifting breeze. Yet no matter where he turned, no matter where he looked, he saw no one.

  Magiere’s venture among the elves might explain their presence. But why would they trail her—or were they following Leesil? Either way, he worried how this might affect his plans. He wanted no one to get between himself and Magiere.

  The scent of life waned, diminishing, until he smelled only moss and needles and the salted breeze. He peered about but still saw nothing, and finally turned back north to where Chane and his monks waited.

  Welstiel could not hunt something he could not find.

  When Hkuan’duv lost sight of the stranger, he clicked his tongue three times, telling his companions to wait. Slipping from the shadows, he followed the stranger’s trail. At a glimpse of movement ahead, he slowed, pausing until it disappeared. He followed again in silence, tracking the pale human by sound.

  Then he heard grunting and snorting.

  Hkuan’duv closed in, one silent step at a time. As the sounds grew closer, he spotted more movement in a clearing just above the beach. He sidled into an aspen, barely making its leaves shiver. Once again, he let shadow take him.

  The dark-haired stranger approached another human, tall and younger with red-brown hair. All around them, others moved like half-crouched beasts, snuffling in agitation. They showed some fearful obeisance to the dark-haired man. Their faces were twisted, and their eyes glittered like his. Their tabards and robes were splattered with dark stains.

  The tall young one spoke. “Was it Magiere?”

  Hkuan’duv closed his eyes, letting their words fill his emptied mind. The strangers spoke Belaskian in low tones, and the younger man’s voice never rose above a hoarse rasp.

  “No . . . I do not think so,” answered the man with white temples.

  “Then what? Who else could possibly be out here? Some Ylladon survivor?”

  “Not them,” the elder answered. “They would not . . .”

  Someone began savagely sniffing the air, and Hkuan’duv parted his eyelids.

  Several of the crouching figures snarled and inched along the slanted forest floor.

  “What now?” the dark-haired man asked.

  “I do not scent anything,” his companion answered. “They grew agitated when you left. It may be nothing more than wildlife.”

  Hkuan’duv had been detected somehow. What were these robed humans who acted like beasts? He dropped low, bunching his cloak and pulling its folds snugly close. He slipped into the forest as silently as a prowling majay-hì. It took only a few breaths before he was certain no one was pursuing him.

  Once clear, he sped up and slipped swiftly through the trees. He whistled softly before entering the clearing, and his comrades dropped from above.

  “Who was he?” A’harhk’nis asked. “He did not breathe as we do.”

  “And so pale . . . ,” Kurhkâge added, “like the one Most Aged Father accused before the council of elders. This can be no coincidence.”

  “What did you find?” Dänvârfij asked softly.

  Hkuan’duv was unsure how much to discuss—as he was uncertain himself. Magiere had been accused of being an undead. Though the council of clan elders had dismissed Most Aged Father’s charges, the patriarch’s firm belief had never wavered.

  Magiere, the monster and undead, had walked freely in the protected realm of the an’Cróan. Now others, so similar in coloring and attributes, trailed her.

  “An entire group camps some distance behind us,” Hkuan’duv finally said. “I counted seven. I believe they are following Magiere as well, but I do not know why.”

  “How did they come to be here, so close upon her heels?” A’harhk’nis asked, his voice hard. “Did they make any mention of the Ylladon?”

  Hkuan’duv shook his head. “The hkomas said their ship was destroyed.” "A Päirvänean was also burned,” Dänvârfij pointed out, “and yet most of our people reached shore.”

  Hkuan’duv had considered this.

  “Should we capture one of them?” Kurhkâge suggested. “Perhaps glean more information?”

  Hkuan’duv saw hazards in such a pursuit. When finished, they would have to kill the prisoner . . . thing . . . to maintain secrecy. He looked at Dänvârfij.

  She shook her head.

  “They know little to nothing of our presence,” she said, “and pose no immediate threat to us or to Sgäilsheilleache and Osha. But if these pale ones have a claim concerning Magiere, they could be useful later. We cannot leave Sgäilsheilleache at odds between our purpose and his guardianship.”

  “If they posses useful knowledge,” A’harhk’nis countered, “we must have it. And if they murdered our ship, they should die.”

  Hkuan’duv glanced at Kurhkâge, who looked silently troubled. It was clear he saw merit in both his companions’ arguments. Duty and sense required that Hkuan’duv listen to all worthwhile input, but the final choice was his.

  “We will watch and wait,” he said. “But now we are monitoring two separate quarry at once . . . one of which appears to travel by night. We must move farther up into the foothills, ranging lower only as needed to track them. We will need all your skills, A’harhk’nis.”

  “Of course, Greimasg’äh,” he answered.

  Hkuan’duv’s decision ended all discussion.

  Just past dawn, Chap watched Sgäile, Osha, and Wynn pack up the dried fish. Leesil broke camp and then joined Magiere, who was once more peering southward over the fallen tree.

  Chap had heard her murmuring in the night. Though Leesil tried to comfort and quiet her, Chap had slipped into her sleep-muddled mind. He tried to bury her dark dreams beneath recollections of hearth and home, of warm nights in the crowded Sea Lion Tavern, where familiar townsfolk filled the common room with chatter and clanking tankards.