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

by S. A. Chapman

  “I’ll be fine,” said Pious with confidence. He readjusted his coat, trying to seal more warmth within.

  Pious and B’Sayan waited quietly outside the entrance for a moment before hearing a scuffling sound on the other side of the door, followed by the heavy dragging sound of the door latch sliding away. The door slowly pushed open, and a young Scythian emerged partway.

  “Hello, K’Jurga,” said B’Sayan, nodding his head to him.

  “Everything is prepared; my brother is waiting for you,” said K’Jurga. He pushed himself against the wall, letting Pious and B’Sayan through the door, before closing it behind them and barring it shut.

  The three walked along a low, narrow tunnel, crouching slightly as they made their way through the dimly lit space. After a few spans, they walked into a vaulted mound almost two spans high. To Pious, the smells of damp earth and roots were overpowering, and the air was musty and thick.

  Pious and B’Sayan stopped in the centre of the hand-carved mound as K’Jurga continued deeper into the mound. The mound was dug into the soft soils of the Engulfing Forest floor, exposing a vast system of roots that reached down from above to support the walls, keeping the soil in place.

  As on the surface, several crudely fashioned stone blocks were placed around the interior perimeter of the Dome, each containing a pool of smokeless burning liquid with a bright blue flame rolling atop its surface. Seven tunnels split from the central cave and extended deeper into the ground. The tunnels were dark and cavernous – except for one, where a gentle light flickered from further within.

  B’Sayan walked towards the opening of the lighted tunnel and stood there for a moment, watching quietly. Then he nodded his head, turned and walked back to Pious.

  “Come on,” he said, guiding Pious forward towards the tunnel with a push of his paw.

  As they walked further into the tunnel, a small room with a central supporting column was illuminated at its end. A female Scythian was leaning over a mound of soil, upon which lay K’Sarat’s body.

  She was combing his fur, adding scented oils to it, combing it with much attention and care. Next to her stood her youngest son, K’Jurga, watching her movements intently. Leaning over his father’s head was K’Reorh, standing quietly. The female Scythian stopped and raised her head when she noticed B’Sayan and Pious entering the small room. As the two approached, K’Reorh’s hair stood on end for a moment, and then lowered slowly.

  “Our Father… he was wise, fair and proud. He faced the dishonour of Clan K’Ast, bestowed upon us by his brother,” said K’Reorh. He pointed to a mound of soil in the corner, covered in a thorny plant, with a small, withered bush growing from the end of the rectangular mass.

  “…his brother, who traded our freedom for his own debts. My father faced this dishonour with humility and with the utmost respect for our laws. I respected my father so greatly that I would have never reconsidered or doubted a single instruction,” said K’Reorh, as he stared at the face of his father.

  He stood there silently for a moment before the hair on the back of his neck started to rise sharply.

  “That was until he told me to pass on his Claw… to you,” he said through clenched fangs.

  K’Reorh turned his head and looked at Pious. He lifted one arm off the mound and pointed it at him.

  “…to you, a smoothskin, an outsider. What an outrage!” he shouted, with anger and fury, slamming his fist down onto the heavily compacted soil mound, just by his father’s head, causing the female Scythian to jump in fright.

  B’Sayan took a small step forward, placing himself slightly between K’Reorh and Pious.

  Pious placed his hand on B’Sayan’s arm and looked at him. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, before returning his gaze to K’Reorh.

  The female Scythian stood up straight, from her bent position over K’Sarat. “K’Reorh?” said the female in a gentle and motherly tone, trying to settle him down. K’Reorh turned to face her and raised a finger in a gesture for her to be quiet. He placed his hand down once more and examined his father’s wounds, looking at him with sadness.

  “But…,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. A moment passed before he turned again to Pious.

  “But then I recall the moment when I ran into the forest, after hearing the screams and howls of the Tchakani. There it was… the scene: Tchakani, the Ůrsa, a group of snared smoothskins, a hunting party…” he recounted, as his throat choked with sadness. His eyes welled with sorrow, tears building at the base of his eyes, before rolling down his fur. K’Reorh sat quietly for a moment, composing himself. He dragged the back of his arm across his face, wiping his running nose and his tears into his fur.

  His brother stepped forward from alongside his mother and placed his arm around K’Reorh’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

  K’Reorh shook his head, rapidly composing himself. “…and my Father, being torn apart like a Faun,” he said, as he looked at his brother, giving him a grateful nod. K’Jurga stepped back alongside his mother.

  K’Reorh turned his head for a moment and looked at B’Sayan. “But do you know what I really saw?” he said to his Voivode.

  “I saw my own people, standing there…,” he said, pointing to some place in the distance, as his expression turned from one of confusion to a vengeful scowl.

  He began grinding his teeth together. “…hesitating, watching, like there was nothing to be done, but watch him die,” he recounted with much resentment, looking back to his father.

  “Then…” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  K’Reorh turned his head to face Pious. “...then, there you were; fighting the terroriser, with nothing but my father’s spear and Burning Fire in hand. I have never seen anything like it before.” He turned and walked to Pious, standing in front of him.

  “You fight like no other – with no fear,” he said, looking Pious directly in the eyes. Pious was almost mesmerised by the sky–blue eyes of the Scythian, contrasted with his reddish golden fur.

  K’Reorh placed his hand on Pious’s shoulder. “Though once wealthy in kin and assets, Clan K’Ast no longer has anything to offer, but the roots over our heads and our humble possessions. By your actions, the Fang of our clan remained with us, ensuring that what remains of clan K’Ast – my mother, K’Jurga and I – retains what little we have, saving us from servitude.” He reached into his satchel and withdrew a claw, with a loop of cord passed through a hole that had been crudely drilled through its root.

  “By our law, in handing his Claw to you, he also handed you mine and my brother's,” said K’Reorh, as he looked at his brother and back to Pious.

  “And with the Voivode as my witness – I will proudly serve you as our Master of the Hunt and saviour of clan K’Ast,” said K’Reorh, as he placed the necklace over Pious’s neck, adjusting the cord, so it sat well on his shoulders.

  “I am honoured, K’Reorh,” said Pious, looking down at the claw suspended around his neck.

  “No, Pious, it is we who are honoured,” said the female, bowing her head to him.

  K’Reorh turned and faced K’Jurga. “You can plant the seed,” he said quietly.

  K’Jurga took a few steps forward from alongside his mother and leant over his father. K’Reorh placed his paw on K’Jurga’s back. “I will miss you, father,” said K’Jurga as he picked up a stone dagger which lay on a flat piece of stone atop the soil mound. He placed it below K'Sarat's sternum and pushed it slowly into the chest, towards the heart.

  He put the stone dagger down and picked up the larger of two small, spiked seeds. He stared at the seed for a moment, before pushing it deep into the chest cavity with an outstretched digit. Then he dipped his hand into a bowl of scented water and washed the fluids from his finger.

  Next, K’Reorh picked up the second seed and placed it into his father’s mouth, pushing it down his gullet. “We will bring honour to our Clan, father; this I promise you,” said K’Reorh, as he smiled down at his father. The
n he washed his hands as his brother had done, before pouring out the water onto the ground. Once the last drops of water had left the earthenware bowl, he set it down next to his father and walked behind his mother, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  “Both of those seeds will grow and bloom, in time,” said the female. “When the flowers of the male and female trees mate and the Spirit Thorn bears fruit, you shall return and pick them. Only then can a Hearess prepare you the Milk of Isis… only then can you be a true Night Hunter.”

  “Come, Pious, let us be done with this place,” said K’Reorh. He walked towards Pious, put his arm around his shoulder and guided him out of the tomb.

  The female sighed a deep sigh of relief. “That went better than I expected, K’Anya,” said B’Sayan, with a slight smile.

  K’Anya placed her hand on his chest. “He is a good boy, Voivode. His heart beats strong for his kin, and for our pride.”

  B’Sayan reached out and hugged her, before taking a step back and looking down at her face.

  “He is an even better hunter. I am sure that he will return much honour to Clan K’Ast,” said B’Sayan, as he looked at the fang of K’Sarat, suspended around her neck.

  “You go on ahead, Voivode. I will extinguish the lamps,” said K’Jurga, as he walked towards the room's flickering light.

  K’Reorh released the inner bar of the Mourning Mound exit and opened the door, letting Pious out. Pious stepped outside into the cool, humid air. He took a deep breath, the fresh, clean smell of the forest making a pleasant contrast to the damp and earthy smell of the soil.

  “Come on, what’s taking so long?” K’Reorh hollered into the depths of the mound. K’Reorh removed his head from the doorway and stood upright. He stretched his arms out, and took a deep yawn, letting out a large stream of steam with his outward breath.

  K’Anya exited the mound, with B’Sayan not far behind. “He is coming; he is snuffing the lights,” said B’Sayan, as he stood alongside Pious.

  The sound of footsteps became louder. K’Jurga stepped out from the mound, bowing slightly to Pious before turning back to the mound door and pushing a metal pin rod into place to seal it shut.

  “And now we celebrate to remember their Father,” said B’Sayan, grabbing both K’Reorh and K’Jurga on the shoulders.

  K’Anya looked up at B’Sayan. “Thank you, Voivode, for sponsoring a gathering at the Festive Mound. We could not have done it without you, or without Clan R’Ast,” she said.

  “It is my pleasure, K’Anya. K’Sarat was a good friend. He deserves to be remembered and for his sons to know it,” B’Sayan said, as he firmly patted the two brothers on the shoulders.

  “Now, we will meet you soon at the Festive Mound. I must take this smoothskin heathen back to the Den, get him scrubbed and find him a proper coat since he’s dirtying mine.”

  “We shall change into our fineries as well,” said K’Reorh with a smile of pride. “Come!” he said, and the remnants of the K’Ast clan unceremoniously turned and headed towards the Den; visibly exhausted, yet bearing smiles of relief.

  “Come,” said B'Sayan. “Let us head back to my Den. I think I remember where we put Galirad’s mantle. We will walk past the Festive Mound on the way back, to check on the progress.

  As Pious and B’Sayan walked through the village, Pious spotted a large group in front of an area illuminated by an orange light emanating from the largest mound in the village. The group was loud, generating much yelling and commotion.

  “What is this?” said B’Sayan to himself. “Come on,” he said to Pious, and they ran towards the commotion.

  As they got closer to the group, the presumed sound of aggravation became one of laughter and joviality, coming from a large group of Scythians forming a ring. B’Sayan and Pious slowly pushed through the crowd of Scythians. In their midst was Tyr, with his shirt off and his fists to his front.

  Tyr noticed Pious and B’Sayan entering the ring, as yelled a victorius ‘aha’ upon spotting him. “Pious, have a look at this would you!” he yelled, with a big smile on his face, swaying side to side. Valerus and Sincerus were standing in the front row, Sincerus with a canister full of mead.

  Valerus caught the eye of Pious and shrugged his shoulders, before laughing. “I wasn’t going to stop him,” he said jovially.

  “Neither was I,” said Sincerus, before taking a swig of mead.

  “Come on, you furry bastard!” said Tyr to the Scythian in the ring with him, as he pointed at the beastman with an outstretched, yet wobbling, finger.

  The large, dark–red–furred Scythian lunged forward and slammed his fist directly into Tyr’s face, dropping him to the ground.

  “Ha! You speak more than you fight!” said the Scythian, wobbling unsteadily. Tyr began to push himself up from the dirt.

  An elderly, grey-furred Scythian, wearing an apron covering his chest, approached B’Sayan. “I warned him not to drink the Orchid Essence, Voivode – even reminded him of what happened the last time. But no, he insisted – and he insisted on drinking it with his new friend there,” he said to B’Sayan, raising his hands in frustration.

  “Now, come on, R’Argh, that wasn’t playing nice, I was talking to my friend, you see…,” said Tyr, as he struggled to find his way to his feet.

  “Hey, Pious – doesn’t this remind of you the night before the Battle of Gau Highway?” shouted Sincerus, as Tyr was mouthing some obscenities to the Scythian under his breath.

  “He doesn’t remember, moron. But you mean the night where Tyr was reprimanded for drinking whilst on duty, and for participating in high-stakes betting matches with the allied forces?” said Valerus, with a reminiscent smirk, as he crossed his arms smugly.

  “Yeah, that was the one,” laughed Tyr, between deep and drunken breaths. “You’re a real goer, mate! But I can dance all night,” he added, as he spat a mouthful of blood on the ground and displayed a pathetic attempt at shadowboxing in the direction of R’Argh. He took a few steps forward, throwing some punches into the blocking arms of the Scythian.

  “Let’s go, Pious – this is perfectly normal amongst the Scythians,” said B’Sayan. He grabbed Pious and began guiding him out of the fighting circle, with the Scythians parting to make way for the Voivode.

  “Don’t be too long, Pious, the food is amazing!” shouted Valerus, as Pious was leaving.

  Sincerus raised his canister of mead into the air. “The drink is even better!” he shouted. He lowered the canister again and took another mouthful while he watched Tyr and R’Argh punch the consciousness out of each other.

  “We come for the food – and stay for the entertainment!” yelled Valerus over the crowd.

  “Your friends will fit right in,” said B’Sayan, as they broke through the circle of Scythians.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Pious. He looked over his shoulder at the disappearing crowd and caught a final glimpse of Tyr tackling the Scythian to the ground.

  The Festive Mound

  “Da, has anyone ever managed to sneak into Sanctuary?”

  “Well, son, there is a story of one group who did; Frystians I believe – Seven of them.”

  “And what happened?”

  “The story says they actually made it all the way into the Sanctum…”

  “And then what happened to them?”

  “They were caught, never to be seen or heard of again…”

  Common rumour throughout the Elysian Realms,

  Unknown Author.

  Noted on the 153rd Cycle of Purity.

  After what seemed like a drunken and hazy lifetime of eating, drinking and listening to the recitation of K’Sarat’s adventures, from within the warmth of the Festive Mound – Pious found himself outside in the cold, leaning against the side of the mound with his hand.

  He was relieving himself alongside the Festive Mound onto a mound of soft Tuftan grass nestled against the mound. B’Sayan, a few spans away, was halfway through an explanation of how the Den mounds w
ere developed into their forms, using the famed Nanofungi of Galirad Sabinos.

  B’Sayan stopped in his pacing and raised his head a little, as his ears stood on end with curiosity. “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” asked Pious.

  “Sounds like music, very faint – faraway.”

  “No, I don’t hear it.”

  B’Sayan looked at the almost empty canister of mead in his head. “I really need to stop drinking this stuff,”

  Pious made himself respectable and picked up his half-full canister of mead, which had been resting atop a crate of supplies, then took another a mouth full of mead. As the mead left the canister and filled his cheeks, the sound of a horn echoed forth through the blackened sky. Pious looked towards the direction of the sound with an expression of shock and concern and swallowed the mouthful of mead in difficult gulp.

  He turned to B’Sayan. “I take it you heard that?” he asked B’Sayan, after wiping his face.

  “I did,” affirmed B’Sayan.

  “That sounded like a Watcher's Horn – but the testing calls are not scheduled until after Tenebrae,” muttered Pious. He walked around to the front of the Festive Mound, with its three layers of curtain drawn shut to retain the warmth of the fires inside. He looked over to B’Sayan, who was scratching his back against the edges of the entryway into the mound. Pious started towards B’Sayan’s mound, heading to the large open clearing near the courtyard.

  Pious stopped in his tracks and listened intently to the still air. His expression turned to one of raw concern as the sound of a Watcher’s Horn bellowed and droned through the air once more.

  “Watcher's Horns…” said Pious in disbelief, as B’Sayan came over to where Pious stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking in the direction of Sanctuary. Plumes of steam shot from B’Sayan’s mouth with each breath. “Horns… Horns… Music?” he muttered to himself, as he paced back and forth.