by Jim Galford
Between the two groups, a wide path had been left open. At first Raeln had believed it was simply due to the slavers and slave-caste wanting to be separate, but he had learned that the council’s emissaries would be given that space to watch. That was also the reason for the delay.
Now, after so long spent waiting, Raeln could see a group of twenty Turessians on horseback riding in their direction. It was almost time. He doubted there would be much delay once they were standing before the clan.
“How will this be done?” Raeln asked softly, watching the horses move up the rise. “Noose? Axe? Magic?”
“As painlessly as possible,” Ceran said, lowering her head. “Just because your actions warrant death does not mean we will be cruel. You will be given a warm drink that will mask the sensation of Yiral’s magic taking you. The magic will be quick and very final. There will be no suffering.”
“And my remains?”
Ceran glanced up at him with a touch of surprise, but then nodded as she looked over at the undead that stood with the clan. “Nothing like that, I promise you. Your head will be removed to ensure no one animates your corpse, and the two parts of your body will be buried separately with respect. We preserve our kin so that they are not lost when the clan moves. While I will give you what honor I can, your body will not walk with us.”
“Will someone watch out for my friends?” he asked next, trying not to look at either Yoska or Dalania.
“Yiral and I will both care for them. They will be kept as safe as we can manage. I swear on my clan and my ancestors’ blood, with Orls acting as my witness. Our honor as preservers would not allow us to lie to you.”
“Good enough. I’ll hold you to that promise.”
The group of the council’s representatives made their way steadily up the rise, slowing to a trot once they were close enough to see clearly. They all looked at Raeln with loathing that was far from masked, which somewhat surprised him, given the way the majority of Turessians made an effort to hide their thoughts. The way the council’s people carried themselves, they seemed to act as though they were above the other clans, with no need to adhere to the norms of their own people.
Once they were close enough that Raeln could see the lines of their tattoos under their hoods, the whole group hopped off their mounts. They led the animals the rest of the way, forming into a tight line, with two men leading. Every group member was dressed identically, with heavy robes delicately embroidered, and boots and gloves with simple etching that was difficult to make out from a distance. Each step of the way, they stared challengingly at the clansmen around them. When they neared Raeln, all eyes swept across Yiral, Ceran, and Orls. They stopped about ten feet from Raeln, the leading men looking to the preservers at his sides but never directly at him.
“You found another wolf?” one of the men asked, sounding to be on the edge of yelling. His voice wavered with poor control. “What are the odds of two showing up in your clan’s land so quickly? Explain yourselves, preservers.”
“That is not why you were called back,” Yiral countered testily, her wrinkled face giving no hint of anything more than impatience. “We are obeying the order of the council. You were to be summoned if we found wildlings on our lands. Here is a wildling and you were summoned.”
“So you are obeying at last,” said the man in front of Raeln, finally looking up at him. “Kill him and be done with it.”
The ropes on him tightened slightly, and Raeln realized there was a tension not just in those holding him, but in most of the Turessians and even many of the slaves down the hill. Something was not right here. The slaves he could understand, but the masters should not be getting nervous, at least no more so than a slave being executed would bring on them initially. His own fear slowly faded as he wondered what politics were at work here.
“There is a small problem with that,” Ceran explained, sounding distinctly distraught as she moved between Raeln and the councilman. “He has actually met all the terms of punishment our clan requires. The decision of the preservers was to allow him to live. Nearly unanimous, even among Nellic’s brethren. Death is not mandatory for his crimes, merely suggested. The council demands his death, but law does not. We have a conflict of tradition and law. For two thousand years, law had taken precedence over tradition.”
Raeln’s attention snapped to the woman, but she would not look at him. She had misled him about the decisions made, though as he thought back, she had not outright lied. When he looked over at Orls, the preserver winked at him, though his face remained impassive. They were playing some kind of game, with his life in the balance.
“Preserver, do not question the council’s decree.” The man tapped a scroll case at his hip. “Their decrees are binding to all clans.”
“Yes, about that,” Orls said, putting one hand on Raeln’s manacles. “Present your papers from the council. I must insist. Our clan has taken a great much on rumor and statements. It is my right as a preserver to examine all evidence and make a decision from wisdom, not rumor.”
The twenty Turessians from the council all tensed, many reaching for the weapons strapped to their horses, but as one the whole clan and many of the slaves drew weapons, summoned magical lightning that clung to their arms, or both. Freezing, the council’s people slowly raised their hands in surrender.
“This is betrayal, you know that,” warned the lead Turessian, taking the scroll tube from his belt gingerly and passing it to Ceran. A muscle in his cheek twitched as Ceran graciously took the scroll from him.
“Only if we disobey the orders of the council all the clans chose. Strange that our clan’s representative has not visited in some time,” Ceran replied, smiling as she popped the case open. “Strange indeed, wouldn’t you say, Yiral?”
Yiral answered quickly, smirking. “He was my son’s second wife’s cousin, and I thought he would never leave the clanhold. We thought we would have to tie him to a rock at the temple to keep him there. I expected a letter, at the least. Months without even seeing him seemed odd.”
Taking out the contents of the scroll tube, Ceran unrolled a half-dozen parchments and held them up for Orls to see. They read quickly, paging through the different sheets before rolling them back up and shoving them into the tube. Raeln could make out nothing from the flowing script.
“These are clearly signed as being from the scribe of the council,” Ceran announced, loud enough that all could hear. None of the tension faded from either side. “Most were dated within the last few weeks. There is no doubt that it bears her seal.”
The spokesman of the council relaxed immediately, holding out a hand for the scroll tube. “Then we return to where we started, preserver. Kill the beast.”
Ceran motioned toward the crowd to calm them, and Yiral moved to stand in front of Raeln, her back to the council’s representatives. Once Yiral was in position, Ceran took the rope tied to Raeln from her.
“This is your decision, preserver,” Ceran told Yiral, pulling on Raeln’s ropes. He reluctantly dropped to his knees. “Do we do this? I have seen the orders myself, signed by the same scribe who has signed every decree for the last two years.”
Yiral studied Raeln briefly before turning her attention back to Ceran. “We must. All of the documents we have seen were as expected. There can be no doubt. We will do as we discussed.”
Ceran and Orls put their hands on Raeln’s shoulders to keep him from standing, and one of the slaves brought Yiral a steaming cup. One of the orcs, Raeln noted with a touch of surprise, noticing the wide-eyed anger on the faces of the council’s people. Raeln had almost forgotten orcs were under the same decree of death as he was. From what he could see, they were going to wait until he was dead to address the topic of the orcs.
The cup was lowered to Raeln’s mouth, its steam warming his nose. There was nothing unpleasant in the scent, though there were herbs he did not recognize.
“Drink it and do not fight,” Yiral said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This will
be painless for you. Do not fight anything that happens. Nothing at all.”
Glancing past Yiral to where the slaves stood, Raeln could see Dalania had turned away and buried her face on Yoska’s shoulder. Yoska continued to watch with unbridled anger. There would be death soon, if Yoska had his way. For some reason, the slaves still held their weapons ready to fight the council.
Steeling himself for what he had to do, Raeln dipped his mouth into the cup, lapping up the warm water as best he could. Drinking from a cup was difficult enough, but doing so with his head down required him to drink like an animal—somehow fitting, given he was about to die like one.
He truly understood Estin clearly for the first time in that moment. He had endured so much pain, so many near-death escapes, and put up with it all to do what he thought was right by his family. Raeln’s family was dead and gone. All he had left was doing what was right, and that meant going through this. It would hurt Yoska and Dalania, but they could heal once it was over.
Within seconds after he had swallowed the first mouthful, its warmth spread quickly through his limbs and made Raeln’s head spin. He was not even sure he could stand if he tried, and when he tried to move his fingers, toes, and tail, he could barely tell if they responded. The end of every limb was numb, and that sensation was rapidly spreading. The few times he had ever tried alcohol, the sensation had been similar, though not nearly as extreme or as quick. Despite knowing he was about to die, Raeln’s first thought was whether Yoska would have wanted to try the drink.
Yiral lowered the cup from Raeln’s mouth and handed it to one of the council’s men, who scowled at being forced to help her, though he did take the cup. Ignoring him completely, Yiral opened her hand, and a long blade of red flame appeared. Raeln had seen a similar weapon once before, and Liris had very nearly killed him with it. Somehow it made him feel better to see the weapon before Yiral killed him. He had always been sure to face his foes, and having the person executing him look him in the eye before doing it eased most of his fears.
“Are you ready, Raeln?” Yiral asked, moving to his side.
Orls shifted behind him, keeping one hand on Raeln’s manacles. His job seemed to be to keep Raeln from trying to stand as Yiral killed him.
“Finish it,” he told her through a thick tongue.
Yiral raised her left hand over Raeln’s back and lifted the sword in her right over Raeln’s head. He immediately lowered his eyes to the feet of the council’s lead man, directly in front of him. If he were very lucky, he would never feel that sword come down. They had promised him a painless death, and between the drink and whatever magic Yiral possessed, he had to hope they were right.
“About that decree,” Ceran said, eliciting a whisper through the crowd. “The councilman whose seal is on it…when did you last see her?”
Yiral remained perfectly still at his side, but Raeln could not force himself to look up. The numbness was making it difficult to concentrate anymore.
“You said yourself it was signed less than two weeks ago,” the council’s man answered, while several of the others muttered amongst themselves. “Get this done with, preserver. I am tired of your questions. You wish to stall for the life of your slave. It is admirable, but it must end now. You have done well by those you care for. Do what you must.”
“I only have one more question,” Ceran added, and Raeln listened to the faint crackling of the sword over his neck. It slowly warmed his skin through his clothing and fur. “How long has Dorralt controlled the council and lied to us?”
Before the others could react, Yiral’s weapon passed low over Raeln’s head with a sizzling hiss. The steaming, severed head of the council’s man landed at Raeln’s knees just before the body fell over, the neck already cauterized.
“It is time we had a reckoning,” Ceran said as fighting broke out in front of Raeln. It took only a few seconds before the Turessians and slaves were holding down the nineteen remaining people from the council. A few steps away, Yoska had one of the men pinned down with a knife at his throat, all of his anger refocused. “I wish to know how many of you knew that the signatory for the council whose seal was on those papers has been dead for a month…and missing for nearly a month longer. I know this because we found her remains among those of a dozen other assistants to the council, left to rot where dire wolves could find them. If you lie to me further, your clan will never find your remains. Honesty will earn you a place among our slaves.”
“You have no right!” screamed one of the council’s women, struggling to free herself from Ildorn, who held her down. “We’re acting on council orders! They died because they refused orders of their own!”
“Kill that one,” Ceran declared calmly, and Raeln heard the telltale pop of a neck being broken. “The council was chosen. They are not kings or emperors. Their decrees have gone against tradition for more than a year, and against Turessian law for months. None of you stood against them. It took three strangers to show us the truth, and it is with pride that I declare two clans united against the council and the creature that now rules them. I would rather fight beside my own slaves in a losing battle than serve a council that has left behind our land’s customs.”
Seconds passed with only the occasional muttered curse from council representatives on the ground. Not one tried to seek forgiveness or explain their actions.
“Kill them all,” Ceran added, turning to Raeln as the remaining members of the council’s party were quickly butchered, staining the snow red as far as Raeln could see. “Now,” Ceran said, bending over to look into Raeln’s eyes. He could barely see her through the haze the drink had filled his head with, and he had to struggle to keep looking straight ahead. “You are not quite finished, wolf.” Reaching to the back of her belt, Ceran drew a gleaming knife that looked as though it had never been used. Given the way Turessians relied on their magic, it was not beyond belief.
Orls’s hand on Raeln’s manacles grew hot for a moment, and then the manacles fell away. He removed the rope from his neck, leaving Raeln unrestrained, though still kneeling. Both Orls and Yiral backed away, allowing him freedom to move, even as Yiral’s magic weapon vanished from her hand.
“My people have wronged yours,” Ceran said, taking Raeln’s hand and pressing the hilt of the dagger into it. “You have every right to kill me. Strike and flee. It is no less than any of us would expect from anyone we have treated this way. There is no law and no moral obligation to resist this. War is upon our clan, and you are not even considered a person, let alone an ally. No law mandates your death or punishment anymore. Do what you must. I give you yet another chance to free yourself at great cost to myself. I will not make the offer again.”
Raeln struggled to stay upright. He stared at the knife in his hand, his eyes drifting lazily between it and Ceran, whose hard expression reminded him all too much of Liris. Memories of the fights with undead Turessians crossed his foggy mind, and he grabbed Ceran by the robe and slammed her to the ground. To his surprise, neither Turessian standing over him made any effort to stop him as he put the knife to the vein along her neck.
He could kill her. It would take only a second to end her life, and only a minute or two to ensure no one could heal her before her blood cooled. It would be easy, and Raeln knew he would be told he was justified by everyone outside of these lands. Yoska would throw a party for him. Even Dalania might forgive him for that bloodshed.
Looking over at the crowd of slaves who had mingled with the Turessian clan, he easily spotted Dalania, watching him with horror in her eyes. She was terrified of what he was about to do. His own sister would have had that same look. He had seen Ilarra give him that worried stare the first time he had lost his temper in a fight with another wolf who had tried to kill him. He knew he was doing something neither Dalania or Ilarra could easily forgive. No amount of anger would ever change the guilt he would put on himself if he carried through.
He held on a little longer, trying to concentrate through the lingerin
g haze of the drink, wondering if he was thinking as clearly as he hoped. Finally, Raeln tossed aside the knife and offered Ceran a hand up off the ground.
Taking his hand gingerly, Ceran sat up and eyed their clasped hands. “I would have killed you for that simple gesture a year ago. There is no time for pride, now. The council will send a hundred or thousand more zealots this way within a week.”
“The council is dead,” Raeln said, eliciting a slight rise of one of her eyebrows. “They were undead under Dorralt’s control. When they tried to defy him, he turned them to ash. Dorralt is the only one left in charge.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Do you want to hear about the last three from the prophecy or not?” he asked in reply. “Turess wrote that jumbled mess. It should be worth something to you. I’m guessing you read it before you gave it back to us. We’re all that’s left.”
Prying her hand free of Raeln’s, Ceran slid a short distance from him and gave Yiral and the others nearby significant looks. After a moment, she said, “Welcome to the clan, Raeln. It seems it is time for some old traditions to be…adjusted.”
*
Raeln remained on the hillside well into the evening, with Yiral at his side, watching the clan drag off the bodies of the council’s people. The clan’s slaves drifted aimlessly, unsure of what to do. Word had already spread that they were no longer to be considered anyone’s property and would be asked to aid the clan, but no one seemed confident of what that really meant. The Turessians did not see the slaves as equals, even as they said they were no longer to be called slaves. It was a strange state for all of them. The clan needed the slaves to work beside them, but neither the clansmen nor the slaves knew how to behave anymore.
Midafternoon, a rider had come into the area to announce the whole population of the clan once headed by Nellic was on its way to join with Ceran’s. The rider claimed they were bringing a hundred Turessians and nearly twice that many slaves and ancestors. The area would soon be very crowded.