Child of a Dead God nd-6

by Barb Hendee

  "Very well," he answered and dropped the monk's leg. "See to it yourself."

  Chane looked down at the half-conscious young monk. The memory of a book of poetry and a sheaf of notes nagged at him. He finally pulled his dagger, crouched and flipped the monk facedown, and gripped the man by the back of his bloodstained robe.

  As he dragged the monk toward the maimed female, she reached up with clutching fingers, trying to grab hold. The large male beyond her took a step toward Chane.

  "Stay back!" Welstiel shouted.

  The robed hulk retreated with narrowing eyes.

  Chane slashed the dagger deep across the monk's throat and dropped him atop the female. He hurried out the cell door without glancing back.

  Hunger roiled inside him, restless at the smell of blood and the warmth of it that had spilled over his hand. Another part of him almost cringed with loathing.

  And finally he heard the door shut.

  Welstiel slid the iron bars through the handle at the sounds of angry screeching growls and tearing cloth.

  "Get more bindings for another of the living," he said. "And be quick this time. I have other tasks to attend."

  Chane descended the stairs in slow steps, trying to empty his mind.

  When he returned, he bound another living monk. The process repeated for the remaining undead who had not yet fed. And again, Welstiel allowed his new minions only a brief taste before snatching away their meal.

  "There are not enough of the living to last," Chane said. "Not enough to truly feed all your minions."

  "Yes," Welstiel answered. "Their hunger continues… as does your nightly vigil."

  He walked away down the stairs.

  Chane stood in the hallway, resentment mounting inside him. These newly risen undead were starving, and hunger unhinged their minds. But still Welstiel would not relent in this disquieting exercise. His newborns were becoming little more than beasts driven to feed. Was this the Feral Path that Welstiel had hinted at?

  Was this what gnawed at Chane's insides beneath the ecstasy of a true hunt?

  He slumped upon the stool beside the stairwell. The passage grew quieter, filled with only discontented rumblings within the cells of the undead.

  Chane's gaze wandered to the passage's far end and locked upon the book of poetry he had tossed away. Then his eyes settled upon the cell doors of the living.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brot'an'duive wove through the coastal trees, troubled by what he had learned this evening. He needed to speak with Sgailsheilleache's grandfather, Gleanneohkan'thva-and there was only one way. Approaching a twisted maple, he withdrew a smooth oval of word-wood from his cloak and was once again grateful for it.

  All the Anmaglahk past their tutelage years carried a word-wood. With these oval slivers, grown from Most Aged Father's own oak, they spoke with the patriarch through any tree growing in open earth. Such were reserved for the Anmaglahk or those clan elders needing to communicate with Crijheaiche.

  Masters of elven ships also possessed their own word-wood, allowing their clan vessels communication in case of need or emergency, but these were grown from the wood of their own ships.

  The smooth oval Brot'an'duive held was neither of these.

  Few carried or even knew of these special word-woods, for they were secretly fashioned by Gleanneohkan'thva and connected only to his tree dwelling. A revered healer among the an'Croan, he was thereby also a Shaper-one of those born with the talent to guide and alter the way of living things.

  Brot'an'duive placed the word-wood against the tree's bark, calling out softly, "Gleanneohkan'thva, are you home?"

  Moments passed before a clear voice rose in his thoughts. Yes… but I did not expect to hear from you tonight.

  "It could not be avoided."

  Hearing his old friend calmed Brot'an'duive as he thought of the eccentric old healer's wry nature, deeply lined face, and steel-gray hair sticking out in all directions.

  "Is Cuirin'nen'a with you?" he asked.

  Yes… but what is wrong?

  Brot'an'duive closed his eyes and planted his free hand against the maple.

  "An unexpected development… which means our first step must be taken earlier than planned. Retrieve the first message stone I engraved and the shale plate etched with my drawings. Wrap and seal both so that they remain private. Give this package to the aruin'nas in the name of the Anmaglahk. They will pass it to the Seyilf, and one of those 'Wind-Blown' people will deliver it to the mountain of the Chein'as, as intended."

  Why rush this little thing? Leshil returns home with his companions. We know where to find him when the time is better.

  "No, Magiere takes them to an unknown destination. Fortunately, they travel south down our eastern seacoast, and I have encouraged Sgailsheilleache to accompany them. I will instruct him to order the ship anchored at the correct location, so he might take Leshil… Leshiarelaohk… to the caves of the Chein'as. Our first small step must be completed before he arrives there."

  You send Leshil himself to the Chein'as… with my grandson as guide? Sgailsheilleache knows nothing of our covert efforts or…

  Before Brot'an'duive answered, a second voice rose in his mind.

  We understand… and I thank you for my son's welfare.

  Cuirin'nen'a's melodic voice filled his head. He remembered the face of Leshil's mother-perfect caramel skin, corn-silk hair, and feathery eyebrows above large, brilliant eyes.

  My son must be armed for his future purpose. We shall do as you ask.

  Cuirin'nen'a paused too long, so Brot'an'duive drew their talk to a close. "I will join you both soon… I have much to tell, but I must stay until Leshil departs."

  I look forward to your return, Brot'an'duive.

  He pulled the word-wood from the tree with a breath of relief. So far, he had successfully set events in motion, but he had one more task to complete before Leshil's departure. He strode toward Ghoivne Ajhajhe's landward side, for this task required two wide strips of leather, loose wool, a needle, and waxed string. He knew where to find such items in the shops by the shore.

  Most Aged Father waited within his massive oak at Crijheaiche-Origin-Heart. As the centermost community of what humans called the Elven Territories, it was also home to the Anmaglahk caste. He was so old that even the clan elders of the an'Croan no longer remembered where he had come from or why he had led his people into seclusion in this far corner of the world. And his massive oak was almost as ancient as he was.

  One of the eldest trees of the forest, its hollowed heart-root chamber below the earth had been carefully nurtured by long-forgotten Shapers since its earliest days. He rested within a bower shaped from the dark root's living wood, so the oak, with its roots threading out beneath the forest, might sustain him to fulfill his people's future need.

  Most Aged Father no longer walked among his people. His withered body clung to life only by the great forest's efforts. But he was still founder and leader of the Anmaglahk.

  "May I bring you tea?"

  Most Aged Father peered through milky eyes at his new attendant.

  Juan'yare-Ode of the Hare-stood patiently in the heart-root's entrance, awaiting a response. His expression, as always, was a mask of polite servitude, but Most Aged Father had difficulty adjusting to this recent change.

  His last attendant, Frethfare-Watcher of the Woods-had been with him for more than two decades. He cherished the daughterly love in her eyes when she looked at him. She never saw him as withered and decayed; she saw only his wisdom and devotion to their people.

  Frethfare was also his formal Covarleasa-Trusted Adviser-but she had suffered serious injury, a sword thrust through her side by the half-dead abomination, Magiere. Though healers worked to restore her, Most Aged Father was told that a full recovery would be slow in coming-if it came at all.

  He missed her, and though he loved all the children of his caste, he could never see Juan'yare taking Frethfare's place as attendant, let alone Covarleasa. />
  Juan'yare's eyes held little warmth but shone with abject loyalty in an average and unmemorable face. At present, only his loyalty was required. He had completed his full training with high recommendations from his teacher and had served in the caste for nearly thirty years. His small-boned stature and boyish features made him appear younger.

  "No," Most Aged Father finally answered. "We will not require tea. Once this audience concludes, you will prepare to leave for-"

  Another voice carried from the outer chamber. "Father, I am here."

  Most Aged Father forgot his new attendant. "Come in, Hkuan'duv, you are expected and most welcome."

  Juan'yare's face washed with awe, and he quickly stepped aside for the visitor.

  Hkuan'duv entered and threw back his hood, giving no note to the attendant's presence. He inclined his head to Most Aged Father.

  "Well met, Father," he said, his voice toneless as always.

  Hkuan'duv-the Blackened Sea-was one of the four remaining Greimasg'ah still alive, a self-made master who had stepped beyond the worldly skills of the Anmaglahk. He so rarely returned to Crijheaiche, preferring solitary tasks abroad, that Most Aged Father had not seen his face in three years. He was a stark sight of medium height, wiry build, and leathery tan skin. Born to a seafaring clan, he still followed their customs and cropped his hair short where other Anmaglahk let theirs grow long. But it had lost any trace of blond long ago and glowed in shocking white spikes. His eyes were narrow-shaped and a shade of amber so deep they appeared topaz.

  "You called for me?" he asked, typically direct.

  Most Aged Father gestured Juan'yare toward a teal cushion on the floor. "Sit quietly and listen. What you hear is never to be repeated… unless instructed by me."

  Juan'yare bowed and dropped gracefully, crossed-legged, upon the cushion.

  Hkuan'duv stood silently poised, awaiting instructions.

  Most Aged Father wasted no more time. "You have heard of what happened here regarding Cuirin'nen'a's son and the intruder named Magiere?"

  Hkuan'duv nodded once with no change of expression.

  "The council of clan elders arranged a ship to take them down the coast," Most Aged Father continued bitterly. "I wish you to gather a small band and follow them, unseen from a distance. Another ship has been arranged for you."

  "You wish to learn their final destination?" Hkuan'duv asked.

  "I wish for you to follow them… and acquire the object they seek."

  Hkuan'duv did not even ask what the object was. He merely waited, and Most Aged Father relayed what little he had learned from Sgailsheilleache.

  "If this artifact is truly as old as the humans' Forgotten History, it cannot remain in their hands. It must come to us. Magiere may be the only one able to obtain it. I have come to accept that she is… unique, so you will wait until she has acquired it… before you take it."

  Most Aged Father hesitated, for the last of Hkuan'duv's task might well seem counter to the will of the elders' council.

  "And when you have it, you will kill Magiere. For the safety of our people, no such abomination must ever be allowed to enter our land again. See that it is done."

  A flicker of puzzlement crossed Hkuan'duv's lean features, and then it was gone.

  Most Aged Father understood. This mission was too deceptively simple for a purpose given to a Greimasg'ah. Others among their caste were certainly capable of taking the artifact and dispatching Magiere, but Most Aged Father wanted one whose abilities-and loyalties-were unquestionable.

  "I do not understand," Hkuan'duv said flatly. "You wish me to follow this half-blood and human… to a castle somewhere in high mountains?"

  "That is all I know, or all they claim to know of the destination. Follow, and do not let them see you until it is too late. I must see this artifact for myself."

  Most Aged Father raised a withered hand to halt any further questions.

  "I will arrange extra eyes upon their ship. Her name is Avranvard. She will have a word-wood capable of communication with your ship and report course changes, stops, or anything unexpected to you. Use her to plan your own course."

  Hkuan'duv frowned, his first true expression since entering. "I do not recognize her name."

  Most Aged Father hesitated. "No, she is not Anmaglahk, though she has requested entrance to our caste. It would not be wise for one of ours to take this role. Avranvard is a seafarer, and no one will question her presence aboard the ship carrying the humans."

  Using an an'Croan outside their caste was unheard of, as was placing spies among their own people, but Most Aged Father saw no alternative.

  "I would never ask this of you," he said, "unless our people's safety was at stake. Do what is necessary to bring this object to me. The Ancient Enemy is returning, and if this is one of its tools-"

  "Of course," Hkuan'duv interjected. "I understand my purpose."

  This was the response Most Aged Father expected, but still a relief to hear. Hkuan'duv was loyal beyond question, unlike the treacherous Brot'an'duive. Once he accepted a purpose, he fulfilled it, always.

  "Be mindful in those you select to share your purpose," Most Aged Father advised. "Choose only seasoned anmaglahk. A skilled tracker familiar with the human territories south of us along the eastern coast. Perhaps an exceptional archer, and a third as you see fit."

  He stared blankly for a moment, trying to remember anyone of note among his caste currently in residence.

  "I believe your last student, Danvarfij, recently returned. Did she not eventually best you with the bow?"

  Hkuan'duv's eyes flickered strangely. "She is here?"

  "I believe so. She would be a good choice."

  Hkuan'duv nodded curtly and turned to leave. "In silence and shadows, " he said.

  Most Aged Father dropped his head back into the moss lining of his bower. He rolled his gaze toward Juan'yare, who sat absorbing all that had transpired.

  "How quickly can you reach Ghoivne Ajhajhe?" Most Aged Father asked.

  "Quickly? It is eight days by barge."

  "But you are a swift runner," Most Aged Father said pointedly. "If you traveled directly on foot, rarely stopping, how soon could you reach the coast?"

  Juan'yare dropped his gaze. "Traveling through the nights as well, I could reach the coast in five days… possibly less."

  "Good, I thought as much. Leave tonight. Locate Avranvard and secure her services."

  Juan'yare blinked. "You have not spoken to her already?"

  Was he consciously attempting to be dim? He had been recommended on the grounds of being quick and clever-and he spoke five human tongues.

  "No, not on this matter," Most Aged Father answered. "Fortunately, she is already the steward on Magiere's ship, which is why we need her now. I refused her entrance to our caste on the grounds that she is past a suitable age to begin training. Speak with her in private. Explain the purpose offered her, and how it might reflect… upon my reconsideration of her heart's desire."

  "Promise her admittance?" Juan'yare stood quickly. "Is that within my power?"

  "It is within my power, and you speak for me!" Most Aged Father snapped. "Hkuan'duv cannot be seen, so he must have her eyes and ears. Promise Avranvard what she wishes, and do not fail to acquire her service."

  Juan'yare straightened. "I will not fail."

  Most Aged Father pointed toward the outer chamber. "In my private stores you will find a cedar box marked with the etching of a mast and sail. Inside is a word-wood from the ship Hkuan'duv will use. Give it to Avranvard."

  Elven ships were older than any who walked upon their decks. Some as old as the forest's great trees, for it took many years to create one. They outlasted any vessel sailing in human waters. Over the years, Most Aged Father had thoughtfully acquired many selected items, and most of his acquisitions eventually proved useful.

  "Father," Juan'yare said with a bow, "I will report from Ghoivne Ajhajhe as soon as I complete my task."

  Most Aged Father cl
osed his weary eyes, hoping his new attendant could live up to his reputation.

  By the dim light of a candle on the side table, Leesil lay awake in bed at the inn with Magiere shifting restlessly against him. She mumbled softly in fitful sleep, and he tried to remain still and not wake her.

  After supper, he'd had to coax and goad her into returning to their room for rest. Unlike the elven forest's depths, the city didn't feed her with enough life to go without sleep. Still, she had slept little since their first night here, and she'd suffered too much for him in coming to this land.

  Leesil relished once more sharing privacy with Magiere, but five nights had passed since Sgaile first pointed out their ship. Its crew still loaded cargo this day, and Magiere was losing patience. Her anxiousness to leave had grown to an obsession to head south. And Leesil's concern for her disturbed him even more than a name that the ancestors-elven ghosts-had tried to force on him.

  Leshiarelaohk.

  The night he'd freed his mother, and led her back to Crijheaiche, he'd sent Magiere, Wynn, and Chap off to rest. He stood vigil outside Nein'a's private tree dwelling, as she rested in her first night of freedom in long years.

  And Brot'an came-that devious, manipulating butcher-leading an elderly elven woman in a maroon robe and matching cloak.

  "Do you remember me?" she asked. "From the hearing before the council of clan elders?"

  Her elven accent was a bit strong, but her Belaskian was surprisingly precise. Few elves but the Anmaglahk spoke any human language.

  "I am Tosan'leag," she added, "an elder of the Ash River clan."

  Leesil nodded his recognition. She had stood among a clan of "scholars" upslope behind him at Magiere's hearing. Taking Brot'an's hand, Tosan'leag carefully kneeled down, studying Leesil's face.

  "Tell her what you saw at Roise Charmune," Brot'an said; "…the faces of the ancestors… what they said to you."

  Leesil had no interest in telling Brot'an anything, but the old woman reached out and touched the top of Leesil's elongated ear. The movement was so startlingly quick for one so old that he didn't pull away until too late. She shook her head with a sigh, as if dissatisfied with his ear, then nodded to him.