Exhumation: An Epic of Existentia (Acts of the Sojourner Book 1)

by S. A. Chapman

  “We always find strange and odd folk wandering this forest – always searching for someone. We had a Frystian woman many Cycles ago – she came from the deepest frozen depths of Shayde, searching for her family. She said some of her family had become lost and that she was the last of the remainder left alive, after being hunted down by horrific creatures – Shayde doesn’t sound like a very friendly place,” said B’Sayan, scratching his ear.

  “And not that long ago,” he continued, “we found a young man lost in the forest. Well, he was more boy than a man, barely of age and in a very poor way. He said that his Queen was sick and that he was looking for someone who had gone missing. He had been searching for almost a Cycle. He kept mentioning a name….”

  B’Sayan looked at the floor, trying hard to recollect. “What was it again…? Syroh – that was it. That was the person he was looking for.”

  “Syroh… it’s a Ravthanian name,” said Pious. “There have been a few Syroh’s that I can recall. We should ask Valerus later, he is much more atop current Attaran affairs than I am.”

  B’Sayan tapped the table and looked at Pious. “Well, he was a very polite young man and very determined. We gave him supplies and took him to the Cove of Lights so he could continue his journey.”

  B’Sayan turned away from Pious, mumbling to himself, and looked at B’Ast. “K’Sarat left his Claw to Pious,” he told her.

  B’Ast’s eyes opened wide. “How does K’Reorh feel about this?” she asked B’Sayan.

  B’Sayan nodded his head. “He openly honoured it.” He looked over to a small stand in the corner of the kitchen lounge.

  “Oh, my… Does Pious know what this means yet?” B’Ast asked B’Sayan, seemingly aware that Pious had no idea of the customs of their people.

  Pious moved his gaze from one to the other, as they began talking in an unknown language as if he wasn’t there.

  B’Sayan looked away from the stand and back at B’Ast. “I will be telling him later this evening, before the rites at the Mourning Mound.”

  “K’Reorh is a fine young hunter. He will not disappoint you,” said B’Ast, as Pious looked back at her in confusion.

  “How is it you came to be in these parts, may I ask. Why do we not have any dealings with you?” questioned Pious, inspecting the interior of the kitchen and admiring the natural beauty of the dwelling, which was adorned with many trinkets.

  “That is a very long and complex story, Pious,” said B’Ast, her tone revealing a warning about the depth of the subject matter.

  “He is banished, B’Ast; he is not going anywhere, anytime soon,” said B’Sayan, in between mouthfuls of soup.

  “Did you tell the Kin to prepare the Mourning and Festive mounds?” questioned B’Ast, looking sternly at B’Sayan.

  “Yes, of course, I did,” replied B’Sayan grumpily, staring at the surface of the wooden table, as if he was expecting trouble.

  “Don’t get mad at me. You know you are not the best for these kinds of things, B’Sayan,” she replied, almost with chastisement. She stood gracefully upright. “I am going to visit K’Anya, to see how she is taking the loss of her husband and check on the progress at the Festive Mound. And Pious… B’Sayan makes everything into a long story; I hope you do not fall asleep easily.”

  B’Sayan grunted, as he shook his head at his wife.

  “Don’t forget to return the Heart Seed!” shouted B’Ast, as she exited the den.

  The Lounge

  “So… you know how the Asius System is where the Sericans come from…

  What if there are people in the Africus System?”

  Sorefoot-Thorn smoke induced musings,

  Seveer Unaek, Senior Magistratum Page.

  Noted in the 160th Cycle of Purity.

  B’Sayan put down his empty bowl, picked up a cloth and began to wipe the excess soup out of his beard. He placed the cloth back down on the table and reached over to a small shelf. It was full of clay cylinders, each one about the size of two large fists stacked on top of each other. B’Sayan collected two cylinders from the shelf and placed them on the table.

  On the top rims of the cylinders, cork stoppers stood proud. B’Sayan pulled them out with ease, and as he withdrew each stopper, Pious heard gas releasing and saw a stream of foam flow from the top. The effervescence of the beverage ejected a sweet aroma of honey and spice into the still air of the kitchen.

  “Frystian Mead… my favourite,” said B’Sayan with a smile on his face, as he started swigging away at the fermented honey beverage. A small stream of liquid trickled through his beard as he stretched his arms out along the top of the cushions.

  Pious picked up the other cylinder and took a cautious mouthful of mead. He smiled happily and looked at the opening of the cylinder in surprise.

  “It’s good, isn’t it? Not often you get booze that tastes this good,” said B’Sayan, as he pulled the corks from his claws and dropped them on the table.

  Pious smelled the effervescent vapours audibly bubbling from the cylinder opening. “I don’t recall ever trying an alcoholic beverage before, but – this taste is very nice and strangely familiar.”

  “Good answer. It might be the honey taste that makes it familiar. I make this stuff myself – from Buzau Honey. It’s an old Frystian recipe that K’Sarat taught me – no idea how he got a recipe from Frystia, and I never wanted to know!”

  ‘Maybe it is the honey…’

  “It is much better than the swill those Sanctuary dockers make – that brown Docker’s Porter swill everyone raves about,” B’Sayan informed him, before taking another sip. “Plus – it is fun chasing off the big flying furry bastards for their honey – so rewarding!”

  The two briefly retreated to silence, savouring a few well-earned and thorough sips of mead, hastily draining the canisters of their contents.

  “Do you smoke?” asked B’Sayan, as he placed his hand on top of a large pouch on the table.

  “No, I don’t, sorry,” replied Pious, and B’Sayan shrugged his shoulders and stood up.

  “Come on, we have a few things to take care of – we can speak of Scythian history later,” said B’Sayan after helping Pious to his feet.

  B’Sayan reached for the shelf of mead and withdrew two more canisters. He handed one to Pious, then walked out of the kitchen, with Pious following along.

  B’Sayan placed his canister on a small bench, before walking to a large chest partially covered by a patterned blanket. He threw back the blanket and opened the chest, mumbling to himself as he rummaged through its contents.

  B’Sayan pulled out some clothing, turned and offered it to Pious. “Here, put these on,” he said, as Pious took the garments from him.

  Pious unfolded the clothes and inspected them, placing them over the back of a stool before removing his tattered and soiled tunic. He pulled on a pair of thick, dark blue felted pants, tying them at the waist with an ornate braided cord, then placed his hands inside the clean tunic and pulled it on over his head.

  “And these should fit you too,” said B’Sayan, as he threw a pair of boots at Pious’s feet. Pious smiled at the sight of the clean footgear and sat down on the stool. He picked up a boot and slipped it on his foot.

  “It’s a perfect fit, who would have guessed!” said Pious, as he slipped on the other boot and pulled the buckles tight. He stood upright and admired the comfort of the well-crafted clothing as he slipped a belt around his waist and fixed it tight.

  “There is a matching mantle, but I can’t find it. We'll ask B’Ast where it is when we see her next,” said B’Sayan, as he picked up his canister of mead from the table.

  Pious noticed a pocket sewn into the tunic and placed his hand inside. A slight look of surprise covered his face as he withdrew a folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and read it aloud.

  “The fundamental construct that is the Decree of Sirius is useless without implementation, being nothing more than a plan, a mould, yearning to be manifested by the hands of the
builder.

  “Its knowledge, in the hands of a journeyman bound to the Beneficent Path, will propagate prosperity and security, just as a seed will produce a head of grain when planted and nurtured by the watching Agrarian. It is by their hands that the materialisation of the implements of peace and the objects of order – such as shelters from the elements and constructive tools – come to be, all being made to exemplify the strength, beauty and harmony of symmetry and order.

  “Yet, when the knowledge lies in the hands of those whose hearts and minds are tainted with the poisoned thoughts of the Whisperers, the Decree will bring forth weapons of war, structures of destruction, and all manner of impious machinations, all crooked and unwholesome, with the intention of summoning submission, destruction and death.

  “The Decree, without adherence to the Beneficent Path and the balancing action of the Beneficent Nine, is much more than useless. It is inherently destructive and is contradictive to all that Sanctuary is, and shall be.”

  “What is this?” asked Pious after he had finished reading the note, showing the piece of parchment to B’Sayan.

  “I don’t know; some kind of smoothskin dribble,” replied B’Sayan, as he presented Pious’s canister of mead to him.

  Pious looked at the tattered paper, which appeared as if it had been torn from a bound journal, before returning it to his pocket. He turned to B’Sayan and took the canister from him.

  “Who did these clothes belong to?” asked Pious, curious to find out the author of the piece of text.

  “Galirad Sabinos,” replied B’Sayan.

  “Arch-Master Galirad Sabinos?” replied Pious, somewhat in shock.

  “Yeah, you know him?” said B’Sayan.

  “Of course, I do. He was the principal lecturer on the Decree of Sirius and the first to be banished from Sanctuary. Well, of course I never met him – he was long before my time – but we are taught that he was a character of dubious reputation,” said Pious, as he inspected his clothes, tugging at them and pulling them into the most comfortable position.

  “He was the greatest smoothskin I have ever had the honour of knowing,” replied B’Sayan tersely, before pointing to the central woody column in the middle of the den. “See the main trunk of this den?”

  “Yes,” replied Pious, inspecting the column.

  “Galirad planted that. It was the first of the Mounders to be planted. He started this village with his ‘Nano Nano’ something. These Domes are very similar to the dens we used to dig back home,” continued B’Sayan.

  “After the Schism, when many were forced out of Sanctuary, he branded his own hand with the ‘Seal’, in defiance. He wanted everyone to know that he chose to be an outcast with freedom and friends – rather than be a citizen whose rights were unlimited toil and confinement of both body and mind,” said B’Sayan, as he rubbed his hand along the column.

  “What happened to him?” asked Pious, curious to know the end of B’Sayan’s story.

  “He disappeared – the crazy bastard. He insisted on drinking the Milk of Isis, and then disappeared the next day, with nothing but these items and a simple note left behind,” B’Sayan said before pausing.

  “’After all this time… I know now what it is. I must tell them… That is what the note said,” stated B’Sayan. He turned to Pious. “Come on, let’s get moving,” he said. He removed a thick, heavy overcoat from the wall and threw it to Pious, who caught it easy despite its weight. “Here, take this. It will do until we return.”

  The Mourning Mound

  “From the voice, the Father…

  From the heart, the Mother…

  From union of heart and voice,

  Child is born,

  Amidst the Spirit Thorn.

  Come children,

  Drink of the milk…”

  “Chant of the Hearess”,

  Reciter unknown.

  Unknown date of record.

  As they exited the interior of the warm den, the cold Tenebraen air quickly bit at the skin of Pious through his new clothing.

  “By the Nines,” said Pious, as he crouched down and placed the canister of mead on the ground. He stood upright and unfolded the heavy, thick coat that B’Sayan had handed to him.

  “Wolverbeest Skin… nothing better at keeping the rains off whilst fishing,” said B’Sayan, pointing to the coat.

  “Skin?” said Pious, almost in disgust, as he stared at the heavy, fur-lined overcoat.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about Lumerus’s zealous commandments,” said B’Sayan, as he looked at the ground and shook his head.

  “Wear it, or not. Be warm, or not. It’s up to you,” he continued, looking at Pious with slight signs of amusement. He let out a big breath, demonstrating the coolness of the air by creating a jet of mist. “I do suggest you wear it though; it is cold.”

  Pious slipped his arms into the long sleeves and drew the coat closed at the front.

  “This is really quite warm,” he said, as he felt his body temperature increase comfortably. Pious stared at the plush fur and stroked it with his hand. As he did, a strange and uncomfortable feeling rushed through him. As a crushing headache came on, his vision flashed between a dark, blizzard-ridden landscape and the Scythian village.

  “Of course, it is!” said B’Sayan. He picked up Pious’s canister of mead and placed his arm around Pious’s shoulder, startling the Auranian. “You look like you are going to be sick – maybe you should lay off this stuff for a while,” laughed B’Sayan, as he started to walk down a worn track in the village floor. He guided Pious along some of the less–travelled tracks, passing between mounds.

  “Now, Pious, the custom of the Fang and Claw is a very old custom and is mainly upheld by the Scythians. When a Scythian has proven himself by the Forging Impasse and has drunk the Milk of Isis, he is marked as one of the Night Hunters. A Night Hunter, an adult member of the tribe, has a voice on communal matters of law and can bear the Voice and or Fist of their Ancestors,” said B’Sayan, as they emerged onto one of the travelled tracks through the village.

  B’Sayan gestured to two large loops around his neck, one with many fangs and the other with an equally large number of claws.

  He picked up the loop of fangs and raised them, showing them to Pious. “The Voice of the Ancestors,” he said, as he dropped them back onto to his chest and picked up the loop of claws. “And the Fist of the Ancestors,” he continued, before dropping them.

  “In a Clan with many, the one who has the greatest Voice of the Ancestors is the head of the Clan. Now, there are only three ways that a Fang can be removed from a Scythian: when he is dead, when he is in debt or when he sees his own end. If removed when he is dead, the one who removes it decides to which member of the Clan it shall go,” said B’Sayan, stopping as he realised Pious was staring at his face.

  B’Sayan laughed. “What?” he asked of Pious, who was obviously curious about something.

  “There are four fangs, though; can you distribute more than one?” asked Pious.

  “Only the top right fang is recognised. So, no, you cannot distribute more than one,” replied B’Sayan. “The Fang is a symbol of the deceased’s assets and whomever he leaves his fang to, becomes the keeper of his assets. It symbolises the transfer of his power of decision-making to someone else, to speak on his behalf and execute his will.”

  “You keep saying ‘he’ – what about the women?” questioned Pious.

  “The women? Hah! They don’t bother with any of this ‘nonsense’, as they call it. They are too busy with prophecy and kin to worry about custom!” replied B’Sayan.

  “You have quite a lot,” said Pious, pointing at the loop around B’Sayan’s neck, heavily laden with fangs.

  “Well, I am old. And still alive,” replied B’Sayan, with a smile on his face. “Anyway. Now, the Claw… that is a very different matter. The Fang of a B’Astian can be removed after death. However, the Claw cannot be removed after death. It can only be removed whilst the Night Hu
nter is still alive, and the pain is meant to be the worst you could ever imagine. The transfer of the Claw means that the clan of the Night Hunter whose claw it was owes a life debt to the would-be owner. If a Night Hunter falls and his body is never recovered, his assets fall to the eldest Night Hunter in his clan. Now, if a Night Hunter or Hunters fall, and all the fangs are lost, the Voices of the Ancestors are lost with them, and that is dire and dishonourable, and the remnants of the Clan are in the servitude of the Tribe. The assets and clan are disputed by the leaders of the other clans, and divided accordingly.”

  “That is terrible,” said Pious, as he stared into the distance.

  “No, Pious… that is life. It doesn’t mean it isn’t sad or unfortunate… but it is life. And sadly, this is what happened to the once mighty and strong K’Ast Clan, more commonly known as the Goldmaw,” continued B’Sayan, as he began to walk a little slower.

  “But, my friend, that is story for another time,” he said, as he stopped in front of a very large mound, with a single door recessed into the mound. B’Sayan quickly drank the remainder of Pious’s mead, placing the canister down on the ground. Unlike the other mounds, this mound did not have any windows or chimneys. A small canopy of draping leaves surrounded the mound's entrance, growing from a Weeping Pepperbriar that had buried its roots into the roof of the mound.

  “Right now, you have a solemn task ahead of you,” said B’Sayan. He turned to face Pious.

  “This is the Mourning Mound, where we lay our kin to rest,” he said, as he gestured to the door, his face illuminated by the blue flames that danced atop the pedestals used to light the doorway. Many metallic motifs adorned the door. The inlaid metal was shaped into scenes of bushes springing from deceased Scythians, bearing many flowers and fruit.

  “Whatever happens, try not to react too hastily. The passing of a clan member can be quite a sensitive time for those who mourn,” instructed B’Sayan. He knocked on the wooden door several times, the fur–muffled thuds rattling the sturdy door, reverberating deep into the bowels of the mound.