by Jay Requard
"We would like to meet," she said, her voice quite accented for a Wagani female. "The Burnt Maiden would welcome you to her realm, Ravager, at your convenience. You may even shelter for the winter, if you'd like, but come to The Burnt Maiden before the next war festival. It is of divine importance."
3
The Last of the Real
Wheels clattered over rocks sunk in a forgotten highway that had been lost from whoever built at some earlier time, jostling the wagon’s three passengers as they headed eastward. Shaken from his short nap, Lut checked on his two companions as he regained his sense of place and time.
Grus had lain in the center of the wagon's compartment, his two-handed sword hugged to his armored chest. Snoring loudly, he drew an annoyed expression from Dras, who sharpened his own sword on the scrap of old whetstone. Dozens of Roofed warriors marched behind the wagon in two columns, a long line of fighters fitted in the best protection they had scavenged over the course of the summer raids. Iron in the hands of each soldier, Lut rose to the wagon's wall to ride it as he studied them, delighted by their poise. A light drizzle fell from the scum skies, wetting the world to dark green.
"How long?" Lut asked, nodding at his father's sleeping form.
"A while now," said Dras, focused on his whetstone. His breath fogged before his snout. "We're an hour or less from the meeting point."
"Any sign of trouble?"
"Saw some wolves in the late morning, but nothing more."
"Good." Lut pulled a small scrap of leather from his belt, a bit of hide he had taken from a Tent he had slaughtered during the past season. Wiping the iron head of his ax, he fell into a tense silence shared with Dras. No words were needed between them as the Roofed went deeper into The Burnt Maiden's forest territory, a swath of Mystland's wilds that was dwarfed only by the territory claimed by the Azure Queen, her fiercest enemy.
“You know where this goes from here,” said Dras.
Lut looked his way. Stone-faced, he nodded. “This was all inevitable.”
“Was it?” Dras asked. “The Roofed were fine with upstaging the Tents, Lut, but the Inners are more than just the rich. They’re our spirit guides, our healers, our law makers, our great minds in wisdom. They are our teachers.”
“And they are still guilty of perpetuating lies for the sake of the gods that rob us.” Lut leaned into the corner of the wagon, shifting for a change in comfort.
“But what happens if the gods actually do come to repay one day?” Dras waved his hand out at the hills. “How do you stop heaven from crushing what it creates?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Lut smiled at his friend, appreciative of his worries. “And hope that Shur sees us on the next day.”
Long minutes passed in a din of marching feet, tired grunts, and sputtering rain, until over the next rise they came upon a shallow valley. Down in its meadows sprawled an elaborate camp hidden behind a hastily-constructed palisade, its tops hacked into white-toothed spikes. A great purple tent resided at the top of a dug mound, the light within warm and welcoming in the bitter wet of the annual monsoon. An army of mud-caked warriors, Inners armed with bows, guarded the field, their numbers equal to the Roofed that marched toward them.
Lut leapt over the wagon’s side, landing easily on his feet. He led his troops the rest of the way, right to the edge of the field where they met The Burnt Maiden's forward guard. Acknowledgments exchanged, an aisle formed for Lut that led him right to the entrance of the goddess's tent. Parting the purple flaps, he entered a cozy interior lit by dozens of beeswax candles and small oil lamps. Incense smoke, scented in wild flowers and musk, strung the ceiling in sensuous, writhing laurels that glowed pink, orange, and yellow. At the center of this magical swirl lay a pallet heaped with cushions surrounding a low round table.
Lounging in the midst of the plushness, a nubile form soft in luster had carved her place on the bed, rolling in the translucent shift that seemed to float on her lithe form. Her bright orange eyes glowed as she raised her head, her shining black mane rippling like cascading oil.
"For a burnt maiden you’re far from ugly," Lut said in his plain speak. Once a Black Hood of the Azure Queen, he had spent many years at war with her, raiding her lands and defending his lady’s name. He had even taken Bloodtide from her, a victory he recalled well. "But you're not even a goddess, are you?"
"Does that matter, Lut?" Laid out on her side, she basked in the dim light. "Perception is truth, nothing more."
"And Honor is iron," uttered Lut. He set his stance wide and defiant. "So how does this work? Do you and the Inners make it up as you go? More rules, more strictures?"
"If the need was not there we would have no place," said The Burnt Maiden, amused by the politic. "Some aren't ready to stand up on their own. There isn't room. So slowly, I am my mother, my mother was her mother, and at least there is order born from my existence. Can you say that much about your power in Mystland?"
Lut approached her dais. “I asked for none.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” She rose to her knees on her litter. "But you have it, as do I," she said. "I am a mighty sorceress who commands legions of warriors. You are young in this game, but if you play it right, you will find something far beyond the honor of your ax." The Burnt Maiden stared at him with an alien intelligence, the dispassionate way humans often did when they saw his kind from afar. "And I know the truth of the one you love."
"Who says I love her still?"
"Why else are you doing this?" she asked, musing. "If not peace then why not war? It would not be the first time a war between lovers blackened the earth."
"You're not like Shur. Or Ata. She isn't either, is she?"
"An overwrought land spirit like The Branched. You should know. How many times does she ever really leave that pond?"
Lut said nothing.
"You and I, Lut," The Burnt Maiden propositioned. "I'll let you be a god. I'll let you have everything you wish for in this world."
"What I wish for?”
Lut let his ax fall from his shoulder, raising it to throw. The sorceress spoke a spell as it wheeled through the air. The crackling fire in her palms faded and she slumped forward, blood drizzling from the wound made by Ravager's bill. Hopping on the palate to place a boot to her neck, he levered his weapon free and brought it down again, tearing flesh, blood, and bone.
Ravager in one hand, The Burnt Maiden's sundered head gripped in the other, Lut left the tent and thrust her broken skull high to the wild cheers of the Roofed. The Inner warriors, frozen by the sight of a dead goddess, failed to defend themselves when they were set upon.
Smoke hazed the darkness, just as it had hazed the days, the noons, and the nights before it. Fires spread in the hills, unstoppable lines of unconquerable warriors, ravaging every inch of Mystland's stony soil.
Lut marched onward, sending his army upon high hills and higher battlements, fighting against the Inners who once claimed rule over them. Only Shur, the besieged warrior who led their way with the glare of his shield, and his mate, Ata, who called armies of stars, the moon, succored those bound to the earth.
Forever divided by loyalties to this god or that goddess, the Inners retreated in horror as the Roofed threw down their stone idols, razed holy temples, and came together in the Age of Liberation. They followed Lut from battlefield to battlefield, clashing with the Inners who had supped too long on exploitation, poisoned by supernatural pretenders who refused calls to honor. New shamans of the Roofed arose from the masses, plying ideas of freedom, devotion, focus, and will.
What had once been a hillock he and his father had called their own, the fortress around Lut's caves grew to have a full palisade. Barracks, granaries, supply sheds, filled and fed by the spoils the Roofed gathered. Guards manned the battlements, clad in night’s shadow or standing bright in the sunlight. Batteries of archers and skirmishers roamed the green meadows outside the wall, ready for whatever order came.
The spring sang one morn
ing when Lut left his wide pallet of furs and blankets to stand on a small outdoor platform built for his use at the rear of the fort where the hills climbed at a steep ascent. Taking a wide stance on the sanded boards, he squatted low, which popped his joints in a series of dull sounds. Grunting through the position, he rose up before bending forward in an attempt to touch his toes.
"Morning," called Grus as he walked out of his own chamber, a larger room built beside Lut's. Wrapped in the same deer-skin that always girded his loins, the old fighter carried Bloodtide on his shoulder, the massive blade freshly polished. Setting it by a bench between the two doors to their rooms, he joined his son on the platform. "You stretched out?"
"Almost," said Lut as he crossed his right arm over his chest, pinning it with the left. "You sleep well?"
Grus sat down and motioned his son to do the same. "As I can at my age."
Facing each other, they opened their legs at a wide angle, feet touching as they locked hands. Pulled forward, Lut worked until his snout and tusks touched the wood. The muscles in his back, aching from years of combat, screamed their dismay as they were stretched to numbness.
"Dras give you the reports for this morning?" Lut asked, grunting through the cold fire in his back.
"Not yet," said Grus, slowly relieving the tension of his hold. "How are your ankles?"
"Creaking."
His father's face showed concern. "How bad?"
"They just ache," he said. "No more than yours do."
"You're too young for such pains, son," said Grus. He cracked a wide smile. "And you're getting too old to be without some things."
"Meaning?"
"It's been almost three years. Maybe it's time you found a mate."
Lut sighed. "Father."
Grus let go of his son's hands, freeing him. "Come now, boy. You can't tell me that there isn't a hunger in you for a mate. Maybe even love." The world around them paused when the old Wag sighed, a gentle sound befitting of a warrior who had reached longer years than he expected. Looking up into the sky, his grin widened.
"What?" asked Lut. "Why are you so happy?"
Grus motioned at the fort. "Look at this. When you were born was the day your mother died, and from that day all I wanted to give you was the very best I could. We may have disagreed with that at one point, but look where we are. My son is leading his people to freedom—real freedom—and he has given others a roof. Why wouldn't I be happy? I have you, and you have given yourself and others a future. "
Lut cleared his throat, fighting the smile that conquered his face. "Let me go get Ravager. We need to inspect those wells Brac built in the outlands."
His father laughed. "Go on, then."
Lut walked briskly back to his bedchambers, holding his lower back to ease the ache the stretches had instilled. At the threshold he stopped.
Three Inners rummaged in his bed, tearing out the hay in silent search of Ravager. They halted when they sensed Lut's presence, their iron daggers bared for battle. Their eyes went from him when he looked to where he had hidden his ax, beneath the bench by his door.
"Intruders," Lut roared.
The three charged.
Gathering up his weapon, Lut turned in time to deflect the first stab, kicking away the attacker as the other two reached for the bare handle of his weapon. Wrenching it free, he brought the wedge across in a savage swing, cracking a skull to send gray matter flying. "Father, intruders!"
The two Inners recovered, driving to pin Lut against the wall of his bedroom. Keeping away the sharp points of their knives, he side-stepped and backed out of the door, hoping to find Grus armed with Bloodtide, ready to defend him. Instead he entered to an unexpected scene.
Seven Inners towered over the fallen warrior, stabbing down into his father's torso and legs with their blades. Blood leaked from multiple wounds on Grus' body as he struggled to reach his hands and knees.
Lut screamed in horror as he rushed at the gathered foes, batting them aside with thudding swipes. Dispersed, the seven Inners were joined by their two brothers. All nine rushed at Lut, backing him against the edge of his raised platform. He saw blood jet from a horrid wound as he downed his second victim before the wall closed. In hopes of seeing his father, he let his guard down for a moment, at peace with death as it came to claim his soul. He gave up hope when a heroic cry split the morning.
"Grus-tik-tik-tik!"
Smeared in his own blood, Grus waded into battle. Bloodtide flashed in his hands, its sharp brand rending apart the body of the nearest Inner. "Grus-tik-tik-tik!" he screamed, lopping off an arm, then a head, and then he opened another body. The Inners that survived the onslaught fled the wide reach of the sword and its master. Allowed a moment to breathe, Lut joined his father with a mighty call, attacking the remaining three. Sire and son bested the cretins, staining the boards beneath their feet crimson.
Wounded by two punctures to his left arm, Lut leaned against the rail of the wooden platform, unable to force himself up. That agony diminished in the instant Grus collapsed. He crawled to his father on hands and knees. "Father! Father," he cried, taking up the ruined body in his bloody arms. His hand quivered as he held it to the old warrior's face, a visage slackened by the quickening claws of doom. "Father..."
Much to his surprise, Grus opened his eyes one last time. "Lut," he gurgled. Gore flooding his mouth. "No tears shed."
Lut wailed like a lost child.
4
Dead Cell
He stared at the canvas of his tent, aching from head to toe. Lut shut his eyes when his back muscles seized until it burned in his toes. The dawn air had invaded the small space, and even lying beneath the three blankets Dras had laid over him the night before, no amount of warmth banished the chill. Birds sang in the branches of the wood outside, a racket that brought an abiding headache. Holding Ravager's handle in his hand, he let the agonizing moments pass without word.
When the sunlight filtered through the canvas, Dras called from outside. "Lut? Are you awake?"
Stirring on the ground, Lut slowly rose, letting the blankets slide down the front of his scarred body. Using his ax like a crutch, he limped out of his shelter. "I'm up, Dras. I'm up."
Upright and strong, Dras offered an open hand to Lut. Already clad in his mail, greaves, and bracers, he waited as one of the Roofed braided his hair into long, tight rows close to the scalp. Lut marveled at the differences between himself and his friend.
"Come on," said Dras. "Let’s get you moving."
Lut cast a glance to the sprawling camp laid out in the dense woods of the valley's eastern slope, a solid position that kept the sun from blinding them to attacks, even when it set in the west. Still in the early hours, most of the Roofed slept sound in their canvas tents, leaving their raidlord and his second to the stillness of the war festival's final day.
"You want to stretch out first?" Dras asked as they limped to a nearby campfire. The logs within had reduced to masses of ash-white cinders.
"No," he said, wiggling his toes at the feeble heat. "Just get my armor."
Dras paused, a hand rested on the handle of his sword. "We need to stretch. And then you need to dress and run before we warm-up, and—"
Lut glared.
Dras' expression dulled with the rebuke. Without another word, the warrior retreated back to the tent, returning a few moments later with a harness made of studded leather, a pair of arm guards, two bronze greaves, and an old bucket helm that once belonged to Grus. The sight of the dented head protection brought a slight smile to Lut's sun-cracked face.
Dras set the gear beside Lut. "So, what's the plan for today?"
Lut did not reach for the greaves as he should have. "Nur wears his Thorncoat, from what our spies in The Branched tell us. Wears heavy armor on his arms and legs too, plus a war crown made for head strikes. He'll try to get close..."
"And thrash once he gains hold," Dras finished, the answer rehearsed. "Keep distance, keep moving. Go for the joints if the opportunit
y presents itself. We don't know how heavy he's going to be, but we have to assume he knows how to move. You have to be lighter."
"I know what I'm doing. This isn't my first fight."
"But this is the first where you've been challenged by an Inner who means it. This is the first fight in our people's history where a Without-Tent challenges those on high. Nur is coming to kill you," said Dras. "You need to be ready to kill him."
"I will be."
"Not good enough," said Dras. "You need to wake up."
Gaze to the fire, Lut stayed silent, too exhausted to argue.
The hours went on, the sun wheeled to its pinnacle in the bright sky, and blood sluiced as glory was found those who sought it. The heroes among the Roofed outmatched those among the Inners and Tents loyal to The Branched.
How had Lut gotten here? So many things had changed.
And yet his destiny seemed longer than he wanted it to be. The Roofed had done more than simply stake their claim to their small piece of Mystland—they spread it, like a pool of Wag blood on the soil. Lut knew how much real soil he now had, enough to sow and feed an army. The wars with the Inners had ended in a pitying stalemate, a few skirmishes and small battles before certain groups started declaring truces. The Five Brothers had ceded tribute first, and then Strotos, who revealed to have a deeper fear of Lut’s ideas than his might. Community and volunteerism seemed strangely dangerous to the rich priests. At last, when all the boons were granted by the shamans among the Roofed—small things like cows to raise or bags of seed to grow—a great horn sounded in the summer valley when the sun began to descend to the close horizon.