-Time and Its Keeping
T he next morning, after they’d eaten, Madger asked to get her pack from the river.
“All right, lass. We’ve nothing else planned for the day.” Kharick set aside his ale.
Madger wrinkled her nose at the smell. She didn’t understand how he could drink so much and not become drunk. The strong smelling ale was always heavy on his breath and some container with it easily within reach. He never seemed totally drunk though. On occasion, he would fall asleep, a mug of the strong beverage in hand, but if woken for any reason he never appeared hung-over or blurry eyed.
She had seen the men in her clan drunk before, and was well versed in the signs of a man stupefied by alcohol. But her clan had aged fruits and honey to ferment their alcohol and it hadn’t smelled as strong as what the dwarf consumed. The women had been allowed a single cup during their celebrations. When she’d turned fifty and was considered mature, she’d been allowed a swallow a few times, but she’d never enjoyed the tang and burn of alcohol.
As they left Gerran in his house, Madger said, “You drink a lot. But you don’t act like you do.”
“Years of practice, lass.” He rubbed his bald head, fingers rising and falling over the warped skin.
“And scars?”
“Some fights, mostly a fire,” Kharick answered with a dejected sigh. “Enough of that.”
Madger went silent, now familiar with the phrase he used to end talk on a subject.
Kharick led her to the large livery stable where Gerran’s horse was stalled. The workers gave them cursory looks, they recognized Kharick and had heard of Gerran’s giant. As the two walked down the line of stalls, Madger caught movement in what she thought was an empty one. The three street urchins rose and hurried after them.
“You’re going somewhere?” Jula asked as the two boys trailed behind her.
“To the river, where we found Madger,” Kharick answered. He stopped at Bill’s stall, and the gray gelding lowered his head to the dwarf to be haltered.
“Take us!” Jula said with a little hop.
“No,” Madger said. She wasn’t about to be responsible for the three children as they traveled back to the river.
“But we’re bored,” Jula whined, and the two boys nodded their agreement.
Soon the three were begging, trying to cajole Kharick to take them to the river. He chuckled as he led Bill past them to where the carts were kept. “Oh kiddies, you do no want to be out in the cold all day.”
“We’ll be out in the cold here all day,” the tall boy answered bitterly. “The stable hands won’t let us stay during the day.”
“Go to Risa,” Madger said.
“Risa told us to stay away today,” Jula said. “That rich fur trader’s wife...”
“Mrs. Gloren,” the tall boy provided.
Jula nodded. “Anyway, she’ll be with Risa most the day, getting dresses fitted. The fat tart doesn’t like us.”
Kharick roared with laughter, he couldn’t bring himself to reprimand the girl.
Madger frowned, she understood not liking children, but didn’t voice it. “Gerran is alone. Help him today. Stay warm with him, and help him. Bring in wood, cook, and keep him company.” Gerran liked company.
Jula made a moue of disappointment.
“She be right, lass,” Kharick said as he stopped to grab Bill’s harness. Madger helped lift the leather onto the horse’s back. “Thank ya. Usually, have to get the stool.” He turned back to the children who hadn’t left them yet. “Go on, keep Gerran company. I expect the wood box to be full when we come back.”
Jula kicked at a pile of horse dung. “Fine.”
With the children sent away, Kharick hooked Bill up to the cart, and Madger climbed into the little bed behind the seat. Kharick sat in front of her and clucked his tongue to the old gelding, and they were trotting north away from the town.
Madger huddled under her black cloak on the little pile of hay in the back of the cart. It was her first time to truly experience being carried in the cart since her trip into town was nothing but a blurry memory. She couldn’t suppress the smile as she watched the gray, really white-haired, horse’s hips and shoulders move in rhythm. How his tail bounced in time with his mane, and the chains on his harness jingled, making music that was timed to the sound of his hooves.
Farmhouses dotted the snowy hills, and small copses of trees broke up the whiteness of the fields. The road was slick with mud and half-frozen puddles. Ruts jostled the cart, and Bill slowed to a walk. Kharick didn’t bother to urge the horse faster again.
“The children, they have no home, no parents…” Madger wasn’t sure if she meant it as a question or not. She wasn’t sure why she should care.
“Their parents be dead. With the urchin’s home burned, and the matron killed in the fire, there be no one to care for them now,” Kharick said.
Madger noted she was beginning to understand his accent better. In fact the more she listened to the people around her the better she spoke the Merchant language. “Who killed their parents?”
“The littlest, Jorn, lost his to a darkling attack at his family’s farm. The older boy, Rosth, his father died in a war a year after he was born, and his mother got sick a year ago and died as well. If they have family beyond this town, they haven’t claimed them.” Kharick took the flagon from his belt and drank his ale. “The girl, Jula, we don’t know where her parents are or what happened to them. She won’t speak of it.”
Madger huffed a sigh, she could understand Jula’s reluctance if something similar happened to her family as it had her clan. She didn’t want to think about it though, so simply watched the quiet landscape go by. She liked snow, it made the world whisper.
By midday, they reached the section of the river where the beaver dam was, and Madger led Kharick across. Both carefully tested the ice that had thickened and hardened since she had fallen in and found it strong enough to hold them. Madger hurried to where she had set up her little camp.
Her pack was ravaged. The leather was shredded and torn open, dozens of animal prints marked the mud. A fox, a family of raccoons, even the beavers had sniffed through her belongings. But the dozens of wolf prints was what Madger guessed had done the most damage. The bison and bear skin had been gnawed on and torn at with claws. The leftover scent of food in her pack had likely drawn the attention of the creatures.
Her socks and the blanket were ruined, torn and rolled in the mud. The goat bell from her brother’s room was smashed along with the pot. With a groan, she walked amongst the destruction and came to the remains of her books, pages scattered and ripped, half buried in the mud. The vellum likely had caused the animals to tear at the pages, the smell of skin hinting that there could be food.
Madger couldn’t keep the tears from falling as she knelt in the mud. Her hands trembled as she picked up half of the cover of the book detailing the Traditions. Between the animals and the weather, the writing had been destroyed.
Kharick gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, lass.” His voice was thick, understanding what it meant to lose all connection with home and family.
Madger stammered, her breath coming in short little hiccups. “I need a moment.”
“Of course, lass. I’ll wait where we left Bill. You come when you be ready.”
Madger nodded, not trusting her voice. It was as though she had lost her family again. Now she had nothing left from home, but the ram skin poncho at Gerran’s house. She waited until she heard Kharick cross the river again and then slammed her fist into the mud.
As the sun was descending from its apex in the sky, she wandered among the remains a final time. She felt weak, her body frail, as she plodded around the trash of her life. She kicked at the vestiges of her pack and hit something hard inside. She picked up the ragged ruins and her father’s stone flute rolled out.
Madger stared at the flute in mute agony. Something had survived. A little glimmer had been left to keep her heart wa
rm, and she picked up the precious memento. She clutched the flute to her breast, fresh hot tears coursed down her cheeks.
She slipped into her native language. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” She stroked the flute like a long lost pet and continued to whisper to it as though she could make up for being gone while everything had been destroyed. While her family had been killed.
“I won’t leave you again. I won’t. I’ll stay. Please.” She sniffed and wiped at her tears. “I’ll keep you safe. I will.”
Madger choked on the words. Her vision was clouded as she clutched the cold stone flute, trying to warm it. “I’ll keep you with me. I won’t lose you too.”
It was early evening by the time Madger crossed the river again and joined Kharick at the campfire. The dwarf glanced at her as the flickering orange light reflected off his bald head and glinted in his eyes. He smiled when she showed him the flute. In thanks for bringing her out to find it and giving her the time to mourn her loss, she played a simple tune for him that had been a lullaby her father had often played for her.
Chapter 8
309 Br. winter
While Ages are determined by important events, the simple counting of time: years, days, hours, is much more regimented. A year can be divided into four seasons. Each season, winter, spring, summer, and fall is divided further into three months each. Each month divided into four weeks.”
-Time and Its Keeping
K hain led the shrouded man into DraKar’s study in his tower where the brothers waited. Safely within the room with the door closed, the man shrugged off the cloak that hid his wings and face. His face was deeply scarred on the left cheek. Black fluid filled the crevice and created a wholly black eye. The other, untouched by the fluid, remained its natural green. His tan feathered wings looked like he was molting, and were riddled with black veining. The fluid was identical to what Khain was made of.
DraKar and Armagon stopped their game of Generals and Champions and shifted their seats away from the board.
“Erian,” DraKar rumbled. “Have a seat.” He gestured to a cushioned chair opposite of him and Armagon. Once the kadmon was seated he asked, “What do you know of the Titan’s Tome? Why would Arkhed want it?”
Erian shrugged casually. “The Titans are extinct. They gave up their place when Lillith and Adam separated. They were one of the first species, and so had Seers, like the kadmoni and the Icren-Lords.”
“The book,” DraKar growled.
Erian was used to the big sarpand’s grousing and ignored it. “I know nothing of the book. The kadmoni had little to do with the Titans after Adam went to them. If Arkhed knew about the Titan’s Tome during the Second Limbo War, he didn’t mention it while I was imprisoned in his labs.”
“You mentioned Seers,” Armagon said, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Could the book contain prophecies? Like the kadmoni write down what their Seers say?”
“I suppose.”
“What they’re trying to ask,” Khain interjected with a wry grin. “Would it have anything in it to break their deal with the king?” Even though they were on the Third plane, Asmodeus was the king of the Hells and he could hear any conversation on the seven planes if his name was mentioned.
“How would I know? I’ve never seen the thing and I don’t know the language.” He gazed at the two with his mismatched eyes. “I’ve told you the easiest way to break the bargain.”
“Binding myself to a god is no better than being bound to an archdevil,” DraKar snarled. “I’m not a slave to be owned!”
“But you’d do it to break Armagon free,” Khain said, his smile still in place.
DraKar’s eyes darted to Armagon and a shiver made the membranes of his wings shift noisily.
“Better to serve a god than the Hells,” Erian said.
“No,” Armagon said firmly. He met DraKar’s eyes. “It is not. He’s right, it would still be enslavement.”
“The only other beings powerful enough to break it, and possibly do it without you binding yourself to them, are the Entities. But Chaos is, well, chaos. The High One sequestered himself in the Heavens when the Dark One was bound in slumber. He will no longer fight, even if the Dark One wakes. The only two who still take an interest in the Mortal plane are the Sisters, Life and Death.”
“The Entities have no more interest in us than we do in an insect,” Armagon muttered.
Khain went completely still, even forgetting to make the small movements to simulate breathing that made people around him more at ease.
“Little better than gods and devils,” DraKar added.
Erian shrugged again and continued. “The Sister’s made two swords, the Alisande and the NecroKwar.”
“We’ve heard the legend,” DraKar rumbled with a slash of his hand in the air. He paused, his mouth opened as if to say more and tilted his head as though listening to something. He cast a spell that shrouded Erian, making him invisible a moment before a rapid knocking sounded on the closed study door. “Enter.”
Sahra pushed the door open. “Meerwood was attacked!”
***
DraKar and Armagon stood at the entrance of the town they’d founded in the midst of a swamp on the Mortal plane. Meerwood was a place of respite for the two and had never been razed before. It had taken years to slip away from the Hells after receiving word of the assault, but with the time difference between the Hells and the Mortal plane, the two were able to reach it a few days after the attack. But they were still too late.
The raised levy topped by the stone road, was the only structure that hadn’t been damaged. The entrance to Meerwood, where the two sarpand stood, was charred and the gate had been destroyed. The fires in town had died before they’d gotten there, and the rain cleared much of the soot and blood. The stone wall surrounding Meerwood was broken in places, and elsewhere melted. The now cooled rock looked like a stream rolling down over the other blocks, frozen in place.
“The message was true,” Armagon said quietly.
DraKar clenched his teeth, but a snarl still boiled out as he walked into the town. “My teleport spell would have likely landed us both in rubble.” If he hadn’t heeded the warning, and teleported into the now unknown area, they would have been killed when their bodies materialized amongst the wreckage. “I need to find Drunah.”
Armagon didn’t voice his doubt that DraKar’s mate was alive. She’d been one of the town’s guards. During the last mating year, she’d coupled with DraKar. She wouldn’t have fled. Ten years hadn’t passed on the Mortal plane for her to have laid their clutch if she had conceived during that fertile year.
Some of the residents and guards hadn’t been burned and were still recognizable; although the bodies had begun rotting and bloating from the days left unattended. Armagon occasionally paused and lifted a body, as their town did have more sarpand residing in it than most. The blue sarpand DraKar was looking for wasn’t among them.
They didn’t bother assessing the damages to the town yet. It was more pressing to find Drunah, or what remained of her. She was only the second mate DraKar had ever taken. After regaining their memories, he had recalled his first mate, but had never been able to find her again. After losing her, his desire to follow his instincts every ten years was nearly gone. Armagon understood, as he hadn’t wanted another mate because he knew Selien’s soul was still preserved, and he wouldn’t abandon her.
The citadel in the center of town was nothing more than a pile of rubble and slag, the stones vitrified and the few defenders, who’d remained, were burned corpses. Only one of the corpses wasn’t a charred mess, a blue sarpand, and she was impaled on a pike in front of the citadel.
DraKar hesitated a moment, then continued toward his dead mate, a painful sound ripped from his throat. Armagon stopped to let him tend her body alone. Drunah’s armor had been removed, and the demons had desecrated her body, carving Mammon’s sigil into her chest. Her wings had been ripped out of their sockets, and the membranes shredded. There w
ere several wounds from spears that had killed her. She’d been ripped open to remove the eggs. The crushed orbs were left at the base of the pike. The only thing left on the ruins of her corpse, was the bracelet DraKar had given her.
A tremor shook DraKar; he could barely take the last steps toward her. He hesitated as he looked up at her, recognizing her, not only from the little spikes that ran in a row from her nose, down her spine, to the end of her tail, but also from the curve of her jaw. There was an old scar on her side he’d found she was ticklish near. A missing claw from her left foot that happened when she’d been newly hatched.
With the last of his resolve, DraKar used his magic to remove her body from the pike and laid her down in front of him. The maggots and carrion birds had already begun their work, but he still went to his knees beside his mate with a choked sob.
Tears blurred his vision as he clutched her cold arm. His fingers traced over the delicate silver wire of the bracelet wrapped around a sapphire. He’d known getting close to someone would endanger them. He’d known the Hells would use that against him. Drunah wouldn’t leave Meerwood, where she’d made a home. He muttered his apologies, using their native language, like when they’d laid together.
“I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry. I should… should’ve been… I tried to tell you.” DraKar took several short breaths. “No, my fault. I should have been here.” His throat went tight and painful. “I’m sorry.”
It was useless to try to gain her forgiveness though. She was dead, gone beyond his touch. Beyond the sound of his voice.
DraKar carefully removed the bracelet and tucked it away in a pouch. His hands were shaking. He wiped away the tears, and with a deep resolving breath, burned her body with a swift spell, incinerating it to ash. When the remains started to drift away in the wind, he turned away from the citadel and walked back to Armagon. The need for vengeance had woken, and he coaxed that flame to an inferno in his heart, to burn away some of his sorrow.
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