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

by Arbela, Zackery

  He turned around, his back to Tarazal, facing the tall throne at the other end of the hall, and the dark hulking shape seated on it. Three steps forward and he ran the blade lightly along the underside of his arm, letting a few drops of blood fall. "Great Master," he declared. "I am Azaran!" He lay the sword down and knelt, fist on the floor, head bowed. "You will is my will! My blade, my flesh, my strength I lay at your feet. Command, and I obey, even to my death!"

  The words echoed off the walls. The Master looked down, and when it spoke the words were not heard but placed directly in his mind, echoing off the sides of his skull. YOU ARE WORTHY...

  "I don't remember..." Azaran repeated. But it was not true, he did remember, he just didn't understand.

  "Liar." Tarazal glared at him. "End this charade! It demeans us both! If you would betray the Master, at least be open about it!"

  "You know nothing!" Azaran shouted at him. The sword wavered as he gave vent to his anger and frustration. "I don't know who I am! Who is the Master? Why do I serve him? What happened to me, Tarazal! You know! You know! Tell me! Tell me..."

  Tarazal swept his arm up, striking the flat of the blade with his forearm. The point opened a shallow cut on the underside of his chin. He rushed in, punching Azaran in the face, causing him to see stars. Azaran stumbled back, cursing as Tarazal grappled with him, trying to wrest the sword from his grasp. They strained against each other for a long moment...but Tarazal was still weak from his wounds. Azaran shoved him back. Tarazal kept his balance, skipping back several steps. With a strangled cry he rushed forward, impaling himself on Azaran's sword, the blade sinking deep into his gut.

  There they stood, Tarazal's eyes wide with pain, even as a grin appeared on his face. Azaran grabbed the front of his shirt. "Who am I? You don't have to die! Tell me!"

  Tarazal's grin grew wider. He grabbed Azaran's forearm with an iron grip and pulled himself forward, shoving the blade deeper into his body, the point coming out his back. "Traitor," he whispered, the damage too great for the runes to heal. "Traitor..." He smiled again and then sighed out his last breath, head dropping and eyes closing.

  Azaran let go of the sword, letting it fall with the body. He stood there for the longest time, not hearing the commotion outside, the sounds of battle in the streets, the shouts and screams. So much death...yet it was nothing to him. He stared down at the dead body and felt only grief. For the answers gained on this day. He fought at the behest of another. He served a Master. And this man who died before him...he was a teacher. A friend. A brother. And now he was gone.

  You mourn him, said the silent passenger.

  "Yes," Azaran whispered.

  That is good. It shows you are not just a weapon.

  Azaran felt tears running down his cheek. "Weakness," he growled, rubbing them

  You are only human. Take comfort in that fact. Now, you may want to leave this place.

  "Why?" Azaran asked. Then something burned his left shoulder. He batted away, knocking off a piece of hot ash that had fall on it. More was raining down around him. He looked to his right and saw flames raging in the passages that led to the King chambers. Fire climbed up the wooden walls and spread across the rood. The air was thick and smoky. A burning timber fell down, crashing onto the floor nearby.

  Azaran looked down at Tarazal, bowing his head once in respect. He walked away, leaving his sword behind, headed out the doors of the hall and down the hill, not looking back as flames consumed everything. He paid no mind to the dead bodies, strode through the narrow gate of the third wall and down into the lower town.

  Men ran through the streets. Gwindec's men. They'd taken the gatehouse and were clearing out the last pockets of resistance. Azaran went towards a nearby house and sat down on a pile of firewood next to it.

  Gwindec walked up to him, face flushed with sweat and victory. "Azaran!" he cried. "Is it done? Is he dead?"

  Azaran looked up and nodded once, too tired to speak.

  "Then we've won! Gwindec raised his sword high. Red stains near the tip suggested it had seen some use. "Victory! Aranac and victory!"

  The cry was echoed by his men, who gathered about cheering, the night lit up garishly by the flames of the burning great hall. "VICTORY!" they roared. "GWINDEC! AZARAN! GWINDEC!"

  Azaran lowered his head into his heads and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Two weeks passed and the world changed.

  The last of the mercenaries died in the muddy streets, after which the rebels turned their attention to putting out the various fires burning across Bellovac. No one tried to save the Great Hall, which burned long though the night, lighting up the sky for miles. It still burned when dawn came and only by sunset of the last day did the flames die down, leaving behind charred walls and stone pillars and the stench of burnt everything.

  Those whose homes still stood in the town returned to them. Those who had no place left remained outside, huddled in tents or finding other lodgings in the local villages. It was a hardship, but the fall of Ganascorec was a fair thing in return. That and the departure of the Ghelenai - those who remained in Eburrea cast aside their black daggers and cloaks and gray kirtles and fled in all directions. Many called on the Goddesses they once served, but heard nothing in return. Nothing, since the day they took the gifts of Nerazag, exchanging their inheritance for earthly power that was all too definitely gone. Now they had nothing, were nothing, had to make whatever future they could. Trudging along the roads away from Eburea, they passed by Rhennari coming in the opposite direction, those who'd fled into exile during the past two decades and now called back home.

  Most of them made right for Bellovac, drawn by the smoke staining the horizon that remained long after the fires were gone, come to see this nephew of Ganascorec who'd deposed his uncle, was already hailed as chieftain of the Aranacs. The other chieftains were coming as well. Whether they would hail him as their lord, or would return to the old ways of clan against clan remained to be seen. Those who were inclined to hear the counsel of the returning priests were advised to choose the former. Ganascorec may have been a tyrant, but he spoke the truth. Divided against itself, Eburrea would not last long in a world where rumors of war floated on every wind, where empires looked for new conquests and tribal hordes gathered beyond the horizon. Why not bow their head to this Gwindec? Who'd already proven himself a leader in battle, whose forged an alliance with the Iturai on one hand even as he seized the Aranacs and their vassals with the other? Who had the vision to lead and the willingness to listen to wise counsel freely offered? Who would show the chieftains the respect they deserved and respect the old customs that had sustained their people for so long...

  And Gwindec played his part well. The other great chiefs of the Colamnac, Mabrehna and Lessanir clans crossing Aranac territory were met not by armed hosts but welcoming feasts, one hold after another, so that when the chiefs and their vassals finally arrived at Bellovac every man among them had gained weight and looked upon the groaning tables welcoming them with something akin to dread. But feast they did, and drink, and boast and so on, until one by one they lay a sword at Gwindec's feet and pledged their allegiance to him as King. He made promises as well, assurances that had been worked out in the days before. Promises that he would not be his uncle, that he would keep to the laws and customs of the Eburreans and treat the clans with honor...and so on.

  And to seal it, a royal wedding, for the chieftain of the Lessanirs had brought three of his daughters along, the chieftain of the Mabhrenas four of his own, while the leader of the Colamnacs had two sisters. Bards who witnessed the scene would go on to write may fulsome songs about it, how each was presented before the brave prince, each more lovely than the last that the prince, so overwhelmed with their beauty and modesty that he would have a woman from each clan, was overwhelmed by love and desire for each one...and so on and so forth.

  In truth...well, the truth hardly mattered. The daughters and sisters of the chieftains may have been the faire
st women to walk the land, or the ugliest, the ones chosen to wed by Gwindec may have leaped with joy at the news or wept bitter tears, while Gwindec himself kept any reservations he felt secret. It didn't matter. The taking of multiple wives was seen as an outlandish custom by the Eburreans, more suited to the decadent cities of Hadaraj then the upright clans of Aelan's Folk, yet that also did not matter. What mattered was that the Lessanirs were the wealthiest of the four great clans, that the Mabhrenas held the north in an iron grip, that the Colamac's ruled the center of the country through which all travelers had to pass. That it would ensure peace throughout the land, something Eburrea desperately needed. That the circumstances were special and exceptions had to be made for this King. This fact, as much as any romantic suppositions, was reason enough for everyone at the gathering who witnessed the scene to cheer loudly. Among them the Queen of the Iturai, who had arrived two days before with a delegation of her people to reaffirm their alliance and sat at the Kings table as an honored guest...

  And what of Azaran? The man who led them into battle? Whose fighting skills had stymied the Tyrant at every turn, who more than anyone was responsible for their victory? Gwindec praised him at the high table and they cheered his name. Azaran raised a glass as well said a few words he hoped were appropriate. Then, as serious dickering and negotiations began among the great and good of the land, he quietly withdrew, headed into the woods away from the camp, finding a spot by a small stream, sitting on an old tree stump with a wine skin and spending long hours staring into nothing.

  There Segovac found him a day later, still seated, the wine skin empty beside him, watching the water pass by. Summer light glittered off the water. A pair of dragon flies danced among the reeds.

  "A man shouldn't drink alone," he said.

  "Mmm." Azaran grunted. If the wine still affected him there was no sign.

  Segovac hefted a full wineskin. "A man shouldn't drink his troubles away. But let no one say Segovac is not a good friend to those in need."

  Azaran took the skin, pulled the cork and drank long from it. When he lowered it from his lips the thing was noticeably less full.

  Segovac took the wineskin but did not drink from it. "You do not seem affected," he said after a moment.

  "I am not," came the reply. Azaran rapped the rune lines branded into his chest. "If I drink enough, I feel...something, for a little while. But soon enough it is gone. Nothing like the drunkenness I have seen in other men."

  "Then why waste the drink?" Segovac pointed at the empty skin lying on the ground.

  Azaran shrugged. "I have seen other men drown their sorrows. I can at least try to do the same."

  "You are not like other men, friend Azaran. The inability to fuddle your mind with strong drink seems a high price for it. I doubt other men would make their choice." Segovac set the wine aside. After a moment he said. "What is on your mind?"

  "Many things."

  "We won, Azaran. Ganascorec is dead. Gwindec is free. Everyone celebrates but you."

  Azaran waited a moment before answering. "You were right," he finally said.

  "Of course...about what?"

  "You predictions. I found what I was looking for...some of it at least."

  "But it was not what you wanted?"

  Azaran shrugged. "I left with more than I came with. But also with more questions. It does not seem a fair trade."

  "If I have learned anything about life, friend Azaran, it's that the things we want out of life rarely come at a cheap cost..."

  "I had to kill a man," Azaran said, cutting him off. "A man like me."

  "With the same marks and...er, abilities?"

  Azaran nodded. "Yes."

  "Did you know him?"

  "Yes." Azaran rubbed the side of his forehead, feeling an incipient headache. "He was a teacher. A mentor. A...friend. He threw himself on my blade. With his last breath he cursed me for a traitor."

  "Against whom?"

  "Our Master. Who I have yet to recall."

  Segovac scratched his beard. "A foul thing, betraying one's Master. Unless he proved unworthy of your service. Such oaths are not meant to last."

  "I don't know if he was worthy or unworthy, what oaths I swore and under what conditions they were broken. When those corsairs pulled me from the sea, I was like a newborn, a empty vessel. I knew my name. And these," he tapped the runes, "gave me knowledge of speech. Bits and pieces have come back since then. When I faced Tarazal..."

  "That was his name?"

  "Yes, don't interrupt. When I faced him, doors opened in my mind that I had not been aware of. I knew he trained me. I was his best student. He taught me all I know, though apparently not all he knew, since he was badly wounded in the end and I was still barely able to take him down. Never hesitate. Strike, do not be struck. Obedience is the only duty. Always remember, you are a weapon. The Four Great Truthes of men like me. He was a man like me, was my friend...until I did something and he came to hate me instead."

  "So, not a warrior," said Segovac, "a weapon."

  "Whoever I served," Azaran responded, "did not want warriors. They wanted killers. Swords with legs. Who would obey without question. I can't imagine why this would necessary, what enemy all this," he waved his hand over the runes, "was needed against. But I don't know if I want to find out. Maybe the things I have forgotten should remain that way. I have seen a glimpse of the man I was and it terrifies me."

  "Then forget him," said Segovac. "Stay here, in Eburrea. There is an honored place for you among the Aranacs. And there is much work to be done, healing the land from Ganascorec and his minions." Segovac paused. "But I do not think that appeals to you."

  Azaran did not answer, continuing to stare at the water.

  "Did I ever tell you about my wife?" Segovac suddenly said.

  "No." Azaran looked over. "I didn't know you were married."

  "It was a long time ago. I was young..." Segovac smiled slightly. "And she was beautiful in my eyes. A farmer's daughter. Not a prestigious match. My family opposed it. My mother warned me, saying she was not a fit woman to be her son's wife. I ignored her warning, thinking it was mere snobbery on her part. We said our vows and I took her into my house. And for a while it was grand...at least to me. I never saw anything wrong with it. But after a few months went by, she seemed to grow more distant. Unhappy, even. I wasn't sure why, she would not answer when I asked.

  "Then one day she was gone. No one in the clan hold saw her leave. My father told me to leave it be, my mother said to take it as a blessing. I cursed such advice and went looking for her. Two months wandering around the land. Then I found her, in the arms of another man, a warrior, stronger than I, more handsome, a maiden's dream. I confronted them both, demanded to know why she left. She said she never loved me, that the man she was with was greater than I in the ways that mattered...and so on. It was humiliating. I challenged the man. He won easily, but he did not kill me, though he wanted to. But my family was an influential one among the Colamnacs and their revenge would be swift, certain and unpleasant. He left me with a bump on my skull and a shame that would not fade for a long time. I returned home and confronted my family. I accused them of knowing what she did. They did not deny it. I demanded to know why they wouldn't tell me, or at least try to stop me. My father, Saerec rest his soul, looked me in the eye and said would it have made a difference if we did? Are you not better for having seen it with your own eyes? And he was right. If I stayed, I would spent the rest of my life wondering why and the question would have eaten me from the inside. But I saw the truth, unpleasant as it was and so that particular boil was lanced before it could grow sore. In time the shame faded. I joined the Rhennari and became a different man."

  Azaran thought on this. "What happened to your wife?" he asked.

  "She and her new man went somewhere north. There was no place among the Colamnacs after the scandal. I know nothing beyond that, in truth I hadn't thought about the woman in years, until just now. It doesn't matter, I am trying
to make a point. Do you see what it is?"

  "I think so. You are saying that I should continue trying to find my past. That if I turn off this path now, I will spend the rest of my life wondering about it and will never know peace. That it is better to know the truth, no matter how unpleasant. Or did you mean something else?"

  "No, you got it right."

  "But where do I go?" Azaran asked. "Tarazal was the only lead I had."

  "Something will turn up," Segovac answered serenely. "Now, come along. There is a wedding feast tonight. Best put some food in your belly."

  Azaran stood, picking up the empty wineskin. they walked back towards Bellovac, leaving the stream and woods in their wake. "A wedding," Azaran mused. "After that story, I'd think you'd be off avoiding such things."

  "Gwindec is a wiser man than I was at that age," came Segovac's reply. "And he's taking three wives. Three chances to get it right."

  "Or wrong, as it were."

  "I prefer to look on the bright side of life, friend Azaran."

  The feast that night was the largest yet, with no less than three ox carcasses roasting over the flames, the air thick with the smell of fresh-baked bread and ripe fruit from the groves, not to mention oceans of strong drink to wash it down. The night resounded with song, with boasts and toasts to the king and his wives, which grew every more ribald as the drink flowed, followed by the inevitable fist fights. In Eburrea a wedding feast was considered rather dull unless at least three men went home in the morning with broken noses or missing teeth.

  Gwindec sat at the high table beneath the moon, the stars and the Mansion, the latter displaying a full face this night, giving the sky a bluish-white hue and everything a twilight glow. Romantic by any measure. He sat in the center, flanked on one side by the wives from the Colamnac and Lessanir, on the other by the one from the Mabhrena. All three were beautiful, so everyone said, though to Azaran's eyes they looked no different than a hundred other Eburrean women about this night. All three looked upon their new lord and husband with respectful eyes, while glaring at each other behind his back. Still, Azaran supposed a little domestic discord was a small price to pay for peace. Though it wasn't him who have to live with it.