Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2)

by Arbela, Zackery

  The light of campfires could be seen through the trees. They emerged in a small clearing, where a band of twenty men were encamped. The fires were small and on a few roasted rabbits or squirrels. They rose up to greet Gwindec, accepting his introduction of Azaran with little comment. Like their leader they were rough from days of travel through the forest, their faces lined with exhaustion and a hardness born from defeat and the certainly of coming death. The weapons at their sides looked worn but well maintained though, suggesting that any attempt to end their lives would come with a heavy price.

  "Are these all your men?" Azaran asked, squatting down by a fire alongside Gwindec.

  "There are a hundred more to the north, camped by a small pond in the deep woods." Gwindec sat down on the ground. "There used to be more, but we lost some to disease or injury. A few lost heart and went home. The rest stay because they have no homes to return too."

  Azaran looked at the men again. Down but not out, they would put up a good fight if pressed. "Alone and outnumbered," he said. "But not defeated. Not yet."

  Gwindec laughed. He lay down on the bare ground, arms on his chest, shifted his sword about so it didn't poke him in the side. "So you say, stranger. But Ganascorec has thousands under his command. The clans may hate him, but they fear the Ghelenai. And if that isn't enough, he has a force of mercenaries at Bellovac, foreign scum who fight like demons and kill for pleasure. They do the work the clans can't be trusted with and they've had plenty of opportunity to sharpen their skills."

  "Numbers aren't everything," said Azaran, even as Tarazal's voice repeated the words in his head. "A small force with the right motivation can defeat a larger one, if it picks the time and place."

  "And what would that motivation be?"

  "Having nothing to lose would be a start."

  Gwindec laughed at that. "We still have our lives. Don't want to lose those. It's a fine notion, Azaran, but I'll believe it when I see it." He opened his eyes. "Do you plan on spending the night? It's a long walk back to the town otherwise."

  "You're right,. I should be going." Azaran stood, glancing at the sky. Maybe an hour past midnight, a brisk walk back and he might still get a few hours rest when he got back. "Good luck to you."

  "As you say. And Azaran...don't say anything about what you...er, discovered."

  "I wasn't planning on it," Azaran said.

  "Good. You seem a decent fellow. I'd regret killing you."

  Azaran walked back to the town in silence. The wind was picking up slightly when he finally emerged from the trees and crossed the fields of grain to the town. He glanced up at the sky, at the face of the mansion. Early morning. Dawn would be coming soon. He made his way through the town and back to the lodgings, climbing back up the stairs to the second floor. Segovac had stopped snoring and Azaran lay down on the other bed roll to the sound of silence. He wasn't tired, felt alert as ever. Yet when he closed his eyes, they opened again to daylight...and the sound of commotion outside.

  Segovac was gone. Azaran sat up rubbing the back of his neck and winching at a crick. Feeling groggy, he went back down to the ground floor. A pot bubbled over of a small cook fire in the center of the room, filled with some greenish gruel that smelled surprisingly fragrant. No sight of the warriors, their breakfast was boiling away with no one to eat it. He carefully tasted a spoonful and found it palatable, though there was a slight tingling along the edges of his tongue as it went down. But a steady diet of hardtack wrought wonders for his tolerance and he finished off the bowl without dropping dead or curling up in pain.

  More shouting from outside, along with the sound of running. He finished off the last bits of stew and went outside, following the crown towards Eralai's house. Tension filled the air. Iturai were gathered about, talking to one another in their language, asking questions and trading answers. In front of Eralai's house the press grew too thick to pass through. Azaran had a good six inches in height on most of the kuyei in the settlement, giving him a good vantage point of the scene.

  Eralai was there, conferring with two of the tribal elders. The onlookers could have been stones for all the attention they paid. Murmuring and comments rose suddenly as three Eburreans appeared. Two of them were warriors Azaran recognized from the night before. The third was Gwindec. They spoke briefly with the Iturai, then both sides went into the house. If anything this only made the crowd more nervous.

  "Azaran!" Segovac appeared by his side. "Judging by the confused look on your face, you have not heard the news."

  "And you're about to tell me, I take it?"

  Segovac looked grim. "Gwindec's men arrived just after noon. They have men posted at the forest's edge, keeping an eye on the major approaches from the east. There is an army approaching, coming right from Bellovac. Ganascorec himself leads it."

  "He's coming here?" Azaran glanced about then lowered his voice. "For us?"

  "For us, for Gwindec, for the Iturai. It doesn't matter. He is coming and a lot of people are going to die."

  The bloody heap of beaten flesh and rags that dropped at Ganscorec's feet bore little resemblance to an Eburrean clan chief. The guards who hauled Belandec before the king backed away quickly. The pair of Ghelenai who did the actual work remained where they were, one polishing her black knife with a rag, looking on the groaning remnants of a man with the attitude of a job well done.

  Ganscorec sat in the chair of the Colamnac chieftains, resplendent in his silver armor and crown. He said nothing, even as the bleeding man crawled towards him, reaching out with a red-smeared hand to the Kings boots.

  "F...f...forgive...forgive..." he whispered, barely clinging to life, able to speak through sheer force of will alone.

  Ganscorec looked at him once, then turned away, staring at the assembled leaders of the Colamnacs and their vassal clans with stern visage and eyes that seemed to look through them. Brannegaia appeared by his side. She looked down at the gasping Belandec and sneered. "Behold the price of treason!" she declared. "So disgusted is the King at the perfidy of Colamnac chieftain that he will not lower himself to speak to this wretch! He has forfeited his life through his actions. The question now is, how many of you will suffer along with him?"

  Blank, fearful faces looked back from the great hall. The men and women gathered here were personages of consequence, distinguished by their rank and accomplishments. They bowed before no man, they cringed before no enemy, yet her presence here made them afraid. The terror of the black knife spoke louder than any warriors loud boast.

  Belandec crawled towards her. "Forgive...forgive..." croaked, apparently the only words he was able to form. He looked up with swollen, blackened eyes, empty of everything except raw terror. "Forgive..."

  Brannegaia laughed. She stepped forward and kicked Belandec, sending him falling back. He tumbled away, curling into a ball and shivered. "Look now!" she all but shouted. "He is not a man! The Goddesses Three have taken that from him! He is not a beast, for even the lowest of animals has value! The Three give life to men, but to the Ghelenai they give the duty of taking it when men turn themselves from the truth! When they listen to the lies of the Rhennari, those peddlers of falsehood and foolishness! When they betray their solemn oaths to Ganascorec, chosen of the Three, their lord, their Master their King! When men commit such crimes, the black knife will show them the error of their ways! And the powers of the Goddesses Three will send them to torments in the afterlife!"

  "Forgive..." Belandec staggered up, rising to his knees, looking out on the clansmen who once called him chieftain. "Forgive..."

  "No forgiveness for you!" She placed the gauntlet sheathing her left arm on the top of his head. Blue crackling energy rushed down in a torrent, setting his eyes ablaze in their sockets. His mouth opened to scream, but only smoke and the stench of burned flesh came out. She let go and the smoking corpse fell to the ground, blackened flesh flaking away.

  She raised her left arm, energy still running along the polished metal. "Kneel before your King," she demande
d. Everyone in the hall obeyed, knowing that though they gave oaths to Ganscorec, it was she they obeyed. The thrill of power than ran through her was equal to the energy of the gauntlet, her eyes almost glowing with their own light.

  Two men stood in the shadows at the back of the hall, watching this calmly. "A bit flashy for my taste," Nerazag said, speaking softly. "But effective."

  Tarazal looked at the Queen, then at the kneeling men and women. "She plays with fire," he said. "They fear her, they do not respect her. Soon enough they will hate her and then the trinkets we have given her will not be enough."

  "They obey for now. That is enough." Nerazag watched as one by one the high and mighty gathered in this hall came to pay homage. "Each man in this room can bring anywhere from a hundred to a thousand warriors into the field. More than enough to deal with a handful of kuyei savages and Aranac renegades. Azaran can do little against such odds. He is a dead man."

  But Tarazal was not so sure. "Look at their eyes."

  "What about their eyes?"

  "I see obedience in them, but no enthusiasm. They obey only grudgingly."

  "So long as they obey, it does not matter."

  Tarazal shook his head. "With respect, you are not a fighting man. It is not enough to make warriors like these bend the knee. When they follow, it must of their own will, or at least the will of their leaders. Otherwise every attack with be reluctant, their spirit will be as air. Look at those men...I've seen more enthusiasm at a funeral. We plan on sending them into the forest to attack people who were friends and allies until a few years ago. I've gone among the common warriors camped outside, listened to them talk. This is a fight they do not want. If Ganscorec himself went before them and gave some kind of explanation..."

  "You know that can't happen,"Nerazag said sharply. "It's all we can do to keep him seated in that chair and speaking coherently. His mind is falling apart. I warned that woman to use the diadem sparingly, but she does not listen. By the end of the year he will be completely insane. As it is, if we brought him out before his men for a speech, there's no telling what gibberish might come out."

  "He is their King," said Tarazal. “These men fight for him. They will cease doing so if he won't even talk to them."

  "Plans are underway to find a replacement. We'll hold onto him for now and get what use we still can. Once Azaran is dead and his head brought before our Master, Ganascorec will die in his sleep. Or suffer an accident. Or be murdered by a foreign assassin...in truth I haven't decided. Someone else will step into his place and into Brannegaia's bed. She will control him as she does that poor fool."

  "And how long until we have to replace her?"

  "I doubt it will come to that. Our Master's plan is entering its final stages. Soon enough we can discard this charade and act openly." Nerazag jutted his chin at Brannegaia, contempt twisting his features for a moment. "That woman will be a slave, like all the others. Nothing more than dust beneath the Master's gaze. All them...dust."

  "All praise to the Master," said Tarazal, fervor in his voice.

  "To all the Masters." Nerazag bowed his head in respect. "They command. We obey. May it ever be thus."

  Chapter Seven

  Eralai and the tribal elders emerged from the house. But the arguments persisted.

  "Hear me!" shouted Nebaro, raising his hands high above his head. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, yet barely rose above the sound of the crowd. "The Eburrean King comes to our forest. But he does not know the forest as we do! We shall make his passage a march of death and lay his bones before the Green Ancestor!"

  "Liar!" shouted a woman at the front of the crowd. She was taller than the others, her black hair streaked with gray. "You will march our sons to their deaths! We must flee into the deep wood, where their warriors cannot follow!"

  "You would have us flee in dishonor?" Nebaro shouted back, his coppery skin darkening with rage. "Flee like rabbits before a stray dog? Leave the work of warriors to the men and stick to your pots!"

  "If you men did your work, we wouldn't be in this mess!" the woman shouted back. "Anyway, I see no man, but a little boy about to soil himself!"

  Nebaro reddened even more and shouted something back, but it was lost in the general uproar that followed. Eralai tried to be heard above the din, to no avail.

  Azaran saw one of the warriors from his lodging's nearly. "Who is that?" he asked, jutting his chin at the woman facing off against Nebaro. From the way she was going, their disagreement was an old one.

  "Her?" said the warrior. "That is Nebaro's mother."

  "His mother?"

  "No one else would speak to him thus."

  "She seems...loud."

  "That's one way to describe it," said the warrior with a laugh. "They argue about everything. Yet he still lives in her house."

  Azaran shook his head in disbelief. He looked back towards the door to Eralai's house, where Nebaro was shouting at his mother, she was shouting back, the elders were shouting at each other and the mob shouting at everyone and itself.

  Azaran turned to his left and saw a knot of Eburreans standing apart from the Iturai, locked deep in their own arguments. Segovac gesticulated wildly before Gwindec, who shook his head in violent disagreement. Azaran sighed and walked over in case it turned violent.

  "Mad!" Segovac was saying, his usual air of Rhennari calm gone. "You would throw away your lives on a foolish gesture!"

  "To die with honor is not the work of a fool!" Gwindec retorted. "And better we die on our feet than wait for the Ghenenai to gut us!"

  "Do not do this, Gwindec! You are the only voice to speak out against your uncle. This is your chance to strike! Ganascorec is weak, all it will take is one blow in the right place..."

  "With what army, Segovac Rhennari? He's coming here with twenty men for every one I have. And the Iturai won't stand against him, not on my account!"

  "So you'll throw your life away?"

  "I'm tired of running," Gwindec said. "My men are tired of running. If Ganascorec is coming for us, then I'll make him pay such a high price that even his witch of a queen won't able to help him forget!"

  "He's not coming for you," Azaran said, approaching them. "He's coming for..."

  But Gwindec didn't stay to listen. He hurried through the crowd, forcing his way to the front. "Hear me, Iturai!" he shouted, speaking their language. "Ganascorec comes here for me! I will not have any of your number die on my account. Flee into the woods! My men and I will remain and buy time for your escape, with our own lives if need be!

  The Iturai looked at each other, a moment of silence falling across the town. Then they started shouting again.

  "Hand him over!" howled Nebaro's mother. "He's the one they want!"

  "No!" Nebaro shouted back. "He is our guest. Better our blood should spill than his!"

  "You must flee now!" Gwindec cried. "He will be here soon!"

  The shouting rose up. There was a commotion at the front, several warriors had begun throwing punches, their disagreement turning violent.

  "This is madness," exclaimed Segovac. "Ganscorec is on the way, and they are trying to kill each other...wait, where are you going?"

  "To knock some sense into them," said Azaran, pushing his way through the crowd. Iturai scowled as he passed by, but none tried to stop him. He made his way to the front, where a pair of young men were pummeling each other, ignoring the shouts of the crowd and the commands or Eralai and the elders that they should stop. Azaran strode up to them, grabbed one in each hand and yanked them apart. Before either could so much as curse, he tossed one fellow in one direction and the other in the opposite, sending them over the heads of the other Iturai. One landed in a midden heap and the other in a pile of compost meant for the fields.

  "Quiet!" he roared, sensing a rune brand flare on his chest, making his voice louder than a man's had a right to be, the nearest Iturai covering their ears. It had the desired effect - the hubbub and ruckus died down, all eyes turning to Azaran in shock.
r />   "The longer you lot argue," he said in a quieter voice, "the closer the enemy comes. Prepare yourselves now for battle. And for victory."

  The Iturai looked at each other. Then they started shouting again.

  "Shoot him!" someone yelled.

  "You want to die," shouted a woman, "cut your own throat! We won't die on your behalf!"

  "You're the one they want!" shouted an old man, leaning in a staff near the front. "I say we hand you over and be done with it!"

  "Aye!" said Nebaro's mother. "Hand him over!"

  "Hand him over!" the cry was taken up. "Hand him over, hand him over, hand him over..."

  Azaran glanced at Segovac. The Rhennari covered his eyes with both hands, shaking his head with disgust. He took a deep breath, ready to shout down the crowd again and wondering is his vocal cords would stand the strain.

  Eralai than strode forward. "Silence!" she shouted. "He has sanctuary, the Green Ancestor has spoken." Her voice was drowned out by the roar from the crowd, only moments away from rushing forward. She sighed and raised something to her lips, a horn longer than her forearm, carved from wood stained black by age and circled with lines of symbols flowing into each other. She took a deep breath and blew through the mouthpiece.