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

by Arbela, Zackery

  The flames died down, leaving the pit full of burning, red hot coals. "Bring forth the sacrifice!" the witch declared. The crowd parted as the evenings chosen victims waddled in - four hogs from the stockyards outside Bellovac, their bodies thick with meat and fat. Those watching this did their best to hide their confusion - until now those chosen for the blood pit tended to be young men who somehow ran afoul of the Ghelenai and sentenced to atone for their mistakes with their lives. But with half the country now in revolt, the King could not spare a single man even to the needs of the witches. Hence the pigs.

  The Ghelenai officiating at the sacrifice could barely keep the sneer off her lips. "Behold!" she screeched, stabbing the first pig in the throat, four strong men holding it down while its blood flowed into the pit, hissing as it fell onto the coals. The others grunted and screeched at the smell of blood and tried to flee, their handlers struggling mightily to keep them under control.

  "Behold!" the witch declared again, as two more of the hogs were brought forward to be killed, their blood gushing down onto the coals. The red heat disappeared, replaced by a wavering green light. A trio of ghostly faces appeared above the pit, wavering in and out, their lips moving, but only fragments of words being heard.

  The witch look confused. She glanced at Brannegaia, who glared at her, then inclined her head slightly to the last remaining pig.

  "Behold!" the witch cried out. The last remaining hog was dragged forward, squealing loudly and struggling, the men holding it down with great difficulty. The witch placed the blood-smeared knife against its throat. The stench of blood from the blade appeared to give the hog even greater strength - with a loud grunt it broke free of the men restraining it, knocking the presiding witch on her backside and bolting away from the pit. It ran around the room, seeking a way out and squealing wildly, the assembled notables of Bellovac scrambling back to avoid having their feet trod on. Many were holding back laughs at the sight, a solemn sacrifice turned into a farce, the fading faces watching this blankly.

  Then Brannegaia stepped forward, a thunderous scowl on her face. She raised her left arm and pointed the silver gauntlet at the pig. A bolt of lightening crackled out, connecting with the swines body. The beast squealed one last time and dropped dead, it's body scorched, the stench of burnt pork adding to that blood and burning coals.

  Brannegaia lowered her arm. She looked left and right. No one dared meet her gaze, lowering their eyes and backing away with fear. "Push it in," she commanded, flicking her left hand at the smoking heap. Several men stepped forward and gingerly shoved the porcine carcass with their feet until it tumbled into the coals.

  The ghostly faces solidified into those of three women, one a crone, the other a maiden, the third somewhere in between. "DAUGHTERS," they said in unison, "STAND FIRM, FOR WE ARE WITH YOU..."

  The Goddess Three spoke for a while, urging the Ghelenai to stand fast against their enemies and for everyone else to submit to the witches, whose words were divine by their very nature. The assembled notables watched this open, rapt eyes, standing amazed at the sight of the Goddesses addressing them directly. Indeed, so focused were they on the sight that none so much as glanced at Brannegaia, who edged backwards towards the wall, hands clasped before her, fingers on a different ring on her right hand. She stared at the three faces, locking in a deep state of concentration. Occasionally her lips would move, silently saying a word or phrase that was uttered out loud a moment later by one of the Goddesses.

  The scene ended with a final exhortation from the Goddesses Three. "THE BLESSINGS OF LIFE ON THOSE WHO BRING DEATH TO THE UNBELIEVERS!" And with that they vanished with a flare of light that left those watching momentarily dazzled.

  Those who were not Ghelenai left afterward, their faces still lit with fear and wonder, the earlier farce all but forgotten. The Ghelenai remained behind, ordering various attendants to clean the mess. The three remaining dead hogs were ordered taken to the kitchens, where they would be butchered and cooked for the witches pleasure. Left unspoken was the concern all of them felt at the disaster that nearly occured. Calling the Goddesses was never so difficult in the past...but then again, they had used the blood of a man and not that of pigs. What if next time it did not work? That was a question no one really wanted answered. They glanced at Brannegaia, who saw their unsaid concerns and addressed them openly. "We remain strong. We will always be strong. As it was in the past, so it shall be today and tomorrow and for all time. If anyone thinks otherwise," and here she placed her right hand atop the gauntlet, "let her speak with me in private."

  The Ghelenai bobbed their heads and left the chamber, uttering words of praise and allegiance to their Queen as they went. She acknowledged these as her rightful due, her face stern and unyielding. Only when they left did a hint of doubt appear.

  "You lot," Brannegaia said, turning to the attendants, who were busy looping ropes about the dead hogs. Another was climbing into the put with a shovel to clear out the now-dead coals. "Take that rubbish and get out."

  "We just need a moment..." said one.

  "OUT!" Lightening crackled along the gauntlet.

  The attendants fled, leaving the carcasses behind. The man in the pit remaining, shoveling out heaps of coals, seemingly unfazed by her anger.

  "Did you hear me!" she snapped, raising the glowing gauntlet, a heart away from blasting out the fools spine from inside his body.

  "I did. There is no need to shout." The lightening surrounding the gauntlet vanished, much to Brannegaia's consternation. She stepped back as the lowly attendant shimmered, his appearance changing. A moment later Nerazag climbing out of the pit, knocking soot off his trouser legs and arms.

  "What happened to the young warrior?" Brannegaia asked, quickly regaining her composure and lowering her left arm.

  "He's gone on a journey north, if anyone cares to ask. People were asking questions about him, and I prefer my presence here remain secret. And no one looks at the fellow who scrubs their floors or cleans out the coals." He then raised his hands, frowning at the grime darkening them. "Though I do object to the messiness."

  "Where is your friend, the warrior?" Brannegaia asked.

  "Around. Don't worry about him. But what almost happened here is a cause for concern."

  "Yes, the pigs...I had no choice. We need every man able to bear a sword or spear in the field. With half the country in revolt, the King is not able to spare a single man. So we must find other ways to do what must be done."

  "Yes, speaking of the King..." Nerazag's voice was deceptively calm. "How is he faring?"

  "Strong. Confident. No man can stand against him."

  "Is he still drooling like an imbecile?"

  Brannegaia pursed her lips. "You would not ask such questions if you did not already know the answer."

  "I warned you." Nerazag approached her, all smiles gone. "Using the Crown of Controlling Voice comes with a price! The mind will not stand for so much interference. I'm surprised he hasn't completely broken down."

  "I have no choice. The King gathers his army, and the warriors will not fight for a man they do not see in person, who does not speak to them with his own voice."

  "Yes, this army. Where does it come from? A large part of the Aranac forces were left behind to the west..."

  "No thanks to you!"

  "...and from what I can tell the rest of the clan and its vassals have been less than enthusiastic in providing replacements."

  "They are not needed," said Brannegaia. "Five thousand men were left in Cavarag, to make sure the swine did not forget their oaths of obedience. They have been summoned back to Bellovac. Their leaders are men whose loyalty is beyond question."

  "Five thousand will not be enough to break this rebellion."

  "Which is why I have issued a proclamation." She didn't even try to pretend it was the King's work. "A general pardon to every outlaw and renegade in Eburrea, should they come and stand under the banner of Ganascorec. Many will answer the call."

 
"Cattle thieves, murderers and outragers of women. Hardly a force to brag of," said Nerazag. "Still, desperate men have their uses. But that also will not be enough."

  "Then you should look south, to the camp of the Hawks of Bronze," Brannegaia answered. "Four thousand mercenaries have come up and taken the Kings coin. Teregi exiles for the most part, former Corsairs. Even you will admit they have fighting skill."

  "I've seen them in action."

  "But hear me well," Brannegaia said. "None of them will take the field on my word. Ganascorec is the King, he is their leader, he must give the command. So I must use the Crown or it all falls apart!"

  "Then you must use it sparingly," came Nerazag's reply. "And I must present when you do, unless you want your husbands brains to boil in his skull."

  "I don't need you to watch over me like some willful child."

  "Yes you do. And even if you did not, it does not matter. I want to be there. I shall be there. You have no say in the matter."

  "Vile little man! Remember who you speak to!"

  "You should do the same, Great Queen." Nerazag loaded the last word with a measure of contempt. He glanced at her left arm, saw the fingers of the gauntlet twitch. A twinge of irritation entered his mind at the sight, which he quickly repressed. The situation called for reason, untainted by emotion. Through self-control he would gain Mastery. This...wretch, filled with ambition for the wrong things, desiring that which made her weak. Were his discipline a mite less, Nerazag would strip away the gifts of the Master and throw her to the wolves, would watch her being torn apart with the purest pleasure.

  But the Master would not have sent him here if he was so weak. Still, it seemed a lesson in gratitude was called for.

  "In my mother's time," Brannegaia told Nerazag, "we did not need your...trinkets. The Goddesses came to us unbidden, when the moon was brightest against the mansion, giving us power over beast and bird and the powers of the womb..."

  "And what did it get you?" Nerazag responded. "The Rhennari matched you in strength and influence. You spoke, they countered, they moved, you blocked. The result was stalemate. I changed that. Your Goddesses gave you nothing! I gave the Ghelenai power over lightening and shadow, the power to fog the minds of men, to fill them with phantoms. What did the Goddesses give you but generations of frustration?"

  Brannegaia did not answer, but the look on her face was enough. She understood all too well...and hated it.

  "Without me," Nerazag continued inexorably, "you and yours would still be in the woods, pricking yourselves on thorns while looking for mistletoe and holly in the dark! And you, Brannegaia, would be just one more witch, a woman of no account, grubbing for roots in the woods while the Rhennari laughed at you!"

  "How dare you!" Brannegaia snarled. Lightening flared along her gauntlet. "I'll see you burn!"

  Nerazag touched the silver bracelet on his left wrist. It suddenly glowed with a harsh light. The lightening crackling about the gauntlet flowed back up Brannegaia's arm and around her body. She gasped, falling to her knees, mouth open in a silent cry of pain.

  "Foolish woman. Did you really think I would give you such power without a way to control it?" Nerazag ran his fingers around the bracelet. "The gifts of my Master, I can also take away. You power, your position...your beauty."

  Wrinkles appeared on Brannegaia's face. Her youthful appearance faded, as she seemed to age decades in seconds. The golden hair turned iron gray and thinned, her breasts sagged, her waist and hips thickened. She did not need a mirror to see this happening, reaching slowly with her right hand to touch the face of an old woman. "No..." she whispered.

  "Your power comes through me," Nerazag said. "That means you obey my commands. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to run, you run. And if I tell you not to use the Crown unless I am present, you will smile and nod!"

  He pulled his hand away from the bracelet. The lesson was over. The lightening vanished and with it the effects of age. Brannegaia fell to the ground, her youth returned. Nerazag waited until she had caught her breath. "On your feet. You are a Queen, after all."

  Brannegaia stood, her feet, her knees wobbling, her head dizzy. "I...apologize," she forced out, her face alight with impotent rage.

  "I own you," Nerazag responded. "Never forget that."

  "I...shall not..."

  "Good. Now, be off with you." Nerazag shimmered, his appearance shifting to that of the attendant. "I have work to do."

  He picked up the shovel and climbed back into the pit, scooping out ask and burned chunks of bone. Another lowly drudge, about the work of the day. Brannegaia stared at him for a moment, then left, hands clenched with rage.

  "Should we cut them down?"

  "Why are you asking me?"

  "This is your country. I'm just fighting in it."

  "Friend Azaran, as long as you walk on Eburrean soil and fight against our common enemy, you are an Eburrean in all the ways that matter."

  "Yes, but without a clan."

  "Easily rectified. After the events of this summer, there won't be a clan that would turn down the opportunity to adopt you in. Assuming you are willing to take the oath of allegiance to whatever chieftain is in charge and exchange old forgotten memories for new ones to come."

  "I've come this far looking for those memories. To give up now seems...well, unsporting."

  "The clans of Eburrea will weep at your decision."

  "And I will weep with them. But you haven't answered my question."

  Azaran waved a hand at the tree, growing up from the side of the road. Three bodies hung by the necks from the larger branches. The scraps of black cloaks and dark dresses suggested they were Ghenelai. The bruises, broken bones and dried blood clinging to their limbs and faces told of ghastly treatment before they were hanged. One of the bodies turned about slightly in the summer breeze, her blank face looking out on the world with a permanent expression of sorrow, the eyes half open, the mouth sagging slightly. Crows circles overhead, eager for their meal and held back only the presence of two men below.

  One of the birds lands on the head of a dead Ghelenai and began pecking at her scalp. Azaran picked up a rock from the ground and flung it, sending the bird flying away with a squawk. "Vermin," he muttered.

  "They serve a purpose." Segovac looked up at the bodies. "A hard way to go, for anyone."

  They were a stones throw from the western edge of the Aranac lands. Two months had passed since the the Battle of the Glade and the army that marched out from Aeresia had only grown as more contingents joined up along the way. The downside of this was that their progress slowed, not to mention the difficulties in feeding a host that grew in size as it went. Eventually Azaran persuaded Gwindec to turn away new arrivals, pointing out that at the rate they were going, the King could pull down and rebuild Bellovac twice by the time they arrive, assuming they didn't starve to death along the way. The clans that lay along their route were willing to offer up their young men, but proved less willing to share the contents of their barns and grain pits. Access to the latter often involved tedious negotiations, during which time the army had to stop and camp along the road. Disease and injury followed in their wake, the inevitable companions of any army in the field and a greater danger to the men than the weapons of the enemy.

  To the south, a group of men were busy hacking out a long line of slit trenches. At Azaran's insistence, it was well away from a small stream that was their chief source of water. Another crew was carting out sacks filled with chicken bones, rotting food scraps and various other bits of trash from the camp, with orders to bury them. Small suggestions like this helped cut down on the number of men dying from the Bloody Runs, the Blue Pox, the Nine Deadly Shivers and various other colorfully named diseases that otherwise would have carried off men in their hundreds.

  The camp itself was pitched in a field south of the road to Bellovac. Trenches were dug around the edges and the dirt heaped up in palisades behind it. Inside various clan contingents had pitched th
eir tents and cook fires, though given the warm weather many simply slept outside. In the center of the place was a large striped tent, a gift from the Colamnac clan, where Gwindec had his headquarters. At the moment the young leader was dickering with three disparate groups at the same time; the chieftain of the Uttarans, the small clan whose lands they were currently camped on, emissaries from the Mabhrena clan to the northwest and the Lessanirs to the south. The Uttarans were a vassal clan of the Colamnacs and with the rest of their fellows had risen up against the King. Their chieftain offered to put his warriors at Gwindec's service and did not object when told it was unnecessary. He was proving more difficult on the matter of supplies for the army, pointing out that the depredations of Ganascorec and his lackeys had left the clan poor and their pantries bare, and that what food they did have was scarce and therefore worth a higher price than most would consider fair. It was one more petty negotiation in a long line of them. To his credit Gwindec had a knack for settling them in a reasonable amount of time and without losing his temper.

  Other Rhennari were with him, three grizzled men who emerged from hiding as the army passed by. Segovac knew them and the joy he expressed at their survival knew no bounds. The wins flowed freely that night as all four sat down and swapped stories of near-misses and scrapes with death at the hands of the Ghelenai. Their presence eased some of the pressure on Segovac's shoulders, allowing him precious free time to watch three dead Ghelenai hang from a tree.

  "The local clan had its reasons for stretching those three by the neck," Segovac said. "And as the Mansion rises, there isn't a man or woman in Eburrea who has a reason to love the witches, Throw a stone in any direction and you'll likely hit someone who lost a friend or loved one to the black knives. "