When the Villian Comes Home

by Gabrielle Harbowy

  Hours passed as Ja’keth steadily climbed, watching as the angle of the rolling hills became more pronounced and the grass slowly gave way to scrub brush and rocks. He had encountered little wildlife beyond insects and the occasional bird overhead, and as he left the grass line behind and the temperature grew colder even those creatures became more rare. As a child he had rarely come even this far below Belor’s Reach; he was a full grown adult before ever setting foot on the road leading to Edreath. Now he had been to almost every corner of the Empire, met members of races from every part of the known world, and the places of his younger days had become the foreign territories. But there were ghosts and shadows here, resonances he remembered echoing deep within him. He was nearly home.

  The sun had long since passed its zenith when he finally reached the path leading from Belor’s Reach to the watchtowers, twisting and turning as it wound from the lower foothills of the Kalatas Mountains into the upper hills of Steumgard. Here the grass was almost completely replaced by rocky outcroppings and occasional brush, and as Ja’keth turned onto the final stretch of the path leading to the village he stopped and breathed deeply. The air had a cooler, crisper flavor, but summer had not entirely given up its hold. He was no more than a half hour away now, and he had half a mind to ask Far’sha for a bowl of her best stew as soon as he arrived, no matter how upset she was.

  Then he heard the sound.

  It was a strange, high, warbling noise, rising like a feather on the breeze before fading into a vanishing whistle. Distress? Pain? Or a warning call—but certainly not an Imperial one, or any that he knew. It came again, slightly tremulous and louder before dying away. Ja’keth hesitated and turned, his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked to the western sky where the sun was turning a slow orange in its descent. It would set in an hour, and the remaining light would be gone a half hour after that. Again the noise sounded, this time somehow sweeter and lighter, before fading as quickly as before. It couldn’t be far away, but his time was short. And what did it matter what some strange noise—

  Again he heard it, this time shrill and piercing, almost desperately intense, and he winced for a moment before the sound dissipated again into silence.

  “Blood,” he growled quietly. “You just can’t leave it alone, can you? Can’t let a loose end…” He sighed, then shook his head again and, turning from the path, set off at a good pace up the hill to his right in the direction of the noise. If he hurried, he could find out what in Sha’nac was making that sound and be back on his way home with plenty of time to spare.

  It continued as he went, alternating from loud and piercing to cool and soothing with each new call, and after twenty minutes he began to wonder how badly he had misjudged the distance. It seemed no closer now than when he had started, though the echoes made by the rocks surrounding him made it difficult to tell for certain. He had just about decided to give up and turn around—the sun was sinking fast, and Las’ken take him if he was going to wander the hills at night in search of a meaningless noise—when he made his way above the crest of a hill and stopped short at the sight in front of him.

  He had come to a small clearing of sorts, with stones and rocks of various sizes littering the ground. A few pillars of rock stretched twenty or more feet above his head, extending from the side of the cliff wall which fell abruptly away perhaps fifty feet in front of him, the orange light of the setting sun casting strange, impossibly long shadows across the rough surface of the clearing. And there, lying on the ground at the base of one of the pillars, seated amongst a shower of rocks as if it had been placed there, was a small basket.

  Suddenly the trilling sound rose from inside the basket, so loud this time he nearly covered his ears before it faded again. He set down his pack and walked slowly over to the source of the noise, hesitating for a moment before looking down. Some kind of wool or hair lined the inside of the basket, and lying atop the wool—

  He saw a tiny creature, wide beak opening and closing, covered in bluish-gray down, squirming and struggling while its miniature wings worked feebly. Ja’keth’s mouth dropped open.

  A presuil.

  Immediately the Warden’s head snapped up and turned, hackles raised, his eyes scanning the area out of habit before his rational mind took over and reminded him of the facts. A prank? A dangerous one if so—and violating at least four Imperial laws and edicts he could think of off the top of his head. But even if some young kalock from Belor’s Reach was stupid enough to bring a presuil here, how could he have done it? Villagers seldom strayed more than a mile or two outside of their own lands, and that only if they were traveling to sell goods in Edreath. Even those travelers wouldn’t be able to procure a presuil, not without going through the black market, which was risky enough. Traders found guilty of buying and selling outside sanctioned markets would have their tongues cut out if they were lucky. And anyone found with a presuil within the boundaries of the Do’vend Empire would be executed in short order.

  Not a prank, then. A trap? For whom? Besides Es’peth Bartuul and a few residents of Belor’s Reach, who even knew he was here? And what kind of trap? Ja’keth sniffed the air and smelled nothing more unusual than the presuil, and there were no rocks large enough to conceal someone watching in any case. He walked to the edge of the clearing and looked down. The wall was sheer here; from this edge the drop would be a hundred feet at least to the treeline below, and there were no creatures visible as far as he could see in any direction.

  The keening call floated again from behind him, loud and insistent, and he turned away from the edge of the clearing and walked back to the basket. The presuil seemed impossibly small to be making a noise this powerful, and he watched in a mixture of fascination and mild distaste as it trilled itself into silence again. He’d never seen a presuil this young before; in fact, he wondered if any kalock, even a Warden, had seen a baby presuil, given the dangers involved in being found with one. Suddenly a flash of color next to the basket caught his eye, and kneeling down he carefully moved the basket away from the rock pile.

  A hand, covered in feathers, lay underneath.

  Frowning, Ja’keth moved more rocks out of the way, taking care not to set the pile moving again, until the arm attached to the hand was exposed. Another minute of clearing revealed the torso, and soon thereafter the head. It was an adult presuil, clearly female from the angle of the eyes, her head broken and covered in congealed blood. The coldness of her body told the Warden she had been dead for some hours, and the size of the wound on her head was enough to tell him what she died of. Rockslides, especially small ones, were a constant problem in this area of the Kalatas foothills. Those who grew up in the area knew the signs to look for: newly disturbed stone, rattling and shaking nearby, long open paths closed or long closed paths suddenly open. But unprepared strangers to the region could easily find themselves on unstable ground or buried under loose stone and rocks in a matter of moments. On rare occasions, the result was death.

  Ja’keth rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. It was probably just as well. A presuil found inside the border of the Empire would be killed on the spot…and depending on the guard doing the finding, the death might have been much more painful than this. But why a presuil would bring her hatchling into Steumgard in the first place, and why here in particular…

  The loud call of the infant presuil jarred Ja’keth out of his reverie, and with a soft growl he looked back down at the squirming creature in the basket. It was miraculous that it hadn’t died already, in truth. It certainly looked healthy enough, despite how many hours it must have been without food or shelter. He blinked as the late sun’s light passed the level of an overhanging rock and shot into his eyes. Better get it over with if I want to get home, he thought, and with another sigh he unfastened the hand axe at his belt. “Time to follow your mother,” he said gruffly as he lifted the axe high above the basket.

  Then, for the first time, the presuil opened
its eyes, black as ebony, and looked right at the Warden for a moment before crying out again. But this time the call was soft and quiet, very short, and Ja’keth’s eyes widened. His axe nearly slipped from his hands, and he stared mutely at the presuil as he sat back on his haunches.

  I’m too tired. Been on the road too long. It can’t have said—

  Again it called quietly in its strange, high voice, the same short sound, its eyes fixed steadily on his while its wings worked and body shifted. It wasn’t possible, but it sounded as if it had spoken in kalock; a simple word, an old one…

  Sarva, it said. Mama.

  And suddenly a scene flashed through Ja’keth’s mind, one he had not thought of in many years: him running as a young cub across the fields on the other end of Belor’s Reach towards his home, fields small enough for him to know every blade of grass on their surface and large enough to be his kingdom. The late sun shooting across the landscape past the house, silhouetting it and the kalock standing on the back steps calling him, Ja’keth, come home, Ja’keth, it’s time for dinner, Ja’keth, come home. And the young Ja’keth laughing and calling back, I’m coming, sarva, sarva, I’m almost there.

  It was gone as quickly as it had come. Ja’keth the Warden remained on his knees beside the infant presuil and its dead mother. He waited for a few moments before almost unconsciously reattaching the axe to his belt. The presuil was quiet now, its eyes still focused on him. “Las’ken take you,” Ja’keth growled finally after a few long moments, but there was no menace in his voice. He stared at the presuil before letting his gaze slip to the mother. Her legs were still covered by rocks, but most of the rest of her was now uncovered, and Ja’keth saw a hard wooden case strapped to her belt. Carefully unfastening the clip which held it to the belt and opening it he saw a mass of cloth and wool, within which sat four small glass bottles filled with some kind of whitish liquid, each one capped with a rubber tip.

  Suddenly he heard voices growing louder from behind him—kalocks. They had probably heard the presuil’s call just as he had. But if they found it here…

  Ja’keth hesitated. And then, for reasons he could not explain, he scooped up the small basket and case and strode to his pack, pulled out the spare cloak and hood from inside and replaced them with the wooden case and basket. He had time to close the pack again and lay the cloak and hood on top of it before three kalocks carrying scythes came into view, stopping as they saw him. Two were young, squat with brown fur; but the third was almost his age and height, covered in mottled black and brown, and after a second he broke into a grin and stepped forward.

  “Never knew you liked spending time at the edges of cliffs, Ja’keth,” the black-brown kalock said in a gravelly voice. “Or does the Empire train you to search rock piles?”

  Ja’keth smiled. “Only when nearby villagers can’t keep their lands clean of them, Har’eth.”

  Har’eth barked a laugh. “We’re not educated enough out here to learn cleanliness,” he replied as he strode to Ja’keth and embraced him. “Blood, it’s good to see you,” he said, stepping back and looking him up and down with an appraising eye. “The army hasn’t made you fat and lazy yet.” Suddenly he blinked and turned, gesturing to the two brown-furred kalocks behind him to come forward. “Ba’leth and Cha’keath Farakech, my nephews. They were away from Belor’s Reach the last time you were here, and before that they hadn’t even been born. And this,” he said to the two kalocks as he nodded in Ja’keth’s direction, “is Ja’keth Aralock.”

  “This is the Warden?” Ba’leth yelped before wincing and lowering his head.

  “Yes,” Har’eth acknowledged with a frown. “But as I told you before, Ba’leth, he’s here to rest, not talk about his time with the Hammers.” He grinned as the young kalock nodded sullenly. “Ba’leth’s been interested in joining the Imperial army since a solider came to Belor’s Reach three years ago—he’s spent more time daydreaming about battles and war and glory than doing his chores.”

  Ja’keth nodded. “I felt the same way before I joined. But I wouldn’t rush to leave the village, Ba’leth. We all grow up soon enough.”

  Har’eth laughed again. “You’re turning philosopher on me, Ja’keth. That can’t be right for a warrior. If I—”

  “What do you have in your pack?” Cha’keath suddenly said.

  Ja’keth felt his throat constrict, but before he could think of a reasonable answer Har’eth jumped in. “What kind of impolite nonsense is this?”

  “I saw the cloak on top of his pack move,” the young kalock replied. Har’eth smiled wryly and opened his mouth as if to scold his nephew again, but suddenly his grin fell away as he caught sight of something. He walked past Ja’keth, who turned to see him stop and stare down at the dead presuil in the rock pile. He looked back at Ja’keth, his lip curled in an expression of disgust.

  “Did you do this?” he asked Ja’keth, who walked slowly up to the pile.

  “No,” the Warden replied, pointing at the presuil’s bloody head. “The rocks killed her long before I got here, probably hours ago.”

  “Killed it, you mean,” Har’eth said in a low growl, turning his gaze downwards again as a wide-eyed Ba’leth and Cha’keath came alongside, the mysteriously moving pack apparently forgotten. “Pity you didn’t. It deserved to die slowly, not with a simple blow to the skull.”

  Ja’keth looked at his friend’s face, contorted with anger. It’s never gone away, has it? Not even after all this time.

  Har’eth stared down silently for a few more seconds, then spat forcefully and turned away. “We were on the way back from the eastern fields when we heard this strange calling. Normally we ignore noises around here, but I knew you were due to arrive and wanted to make sure nothing unusual had happened.” He looked at Ja’keth, a question in his eyes.

  Ja’keth nodded. “I heard the same thing. When I got here, this is…all I found.”

  “Blood,” Har’eth swore. “What’s the Empire coming to when it allows this filth to come here unchallenged?”

  “When I get in the army I won’t let it happen, uncle,” Ba’leth said, gripping his scythe with a growl. “I’ll stop ‘em before they get anywhere close to Belor’s Reach.”

  Har’eth cuffed his nephew lightly on the back of his head as a faint smile returned to his face. “First you need to stop the frost from getting into the cabbages,” he said, not unkindly, but Ja’keth could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Don’t have time to deal with this now…the sun’s almost set. We’ll have to send someone up here to clean this place properly when we can.” He glanced at Ja’keth. “Unless the Empire’s going to want to look into this.”

  Ja’keth shook his head. “The Hammers have bigger things to attend to than a dead presuil that took a wrong turn,” he said with an attempt at a smile.

  Har’eth nodded thoughtfully, searching Ja’keth’s face for a moment. “All right, then. Grab your gear and let’s be on our way. Far’sha will have both of our heads if I don’t get you into the village before nightfall.” Ja’keth slung the pack over his shoulder and laid the cloak and hood over his arm as the four kalocks left the clearing, but not before Ja’keth took a final look behind him at the pile of rocks in the dimming light, feeling the basket in his pack shift slowly.

  5

  Night had indeed fallen by the time the kalocks reached Belor’s Reach, but despite his friend’s prediction, Far’sha was so happy to see Ja’keth that he was more worried about suffocation than decapitation as she hugged him fiercely. He ate as quickly as he could manage without being insulting—Far’sha’s temper was nearly as legendary as her crozil stew—and, having escaped with a plea of fatigue and a promise to be up bright and early to help fix the inn’s leaky roof, retired to the room upstairs where he had stowed his pack. Whether from fear or its own exhaustion, the infant presuil had been silent since they left the clearing,
and Ja’keth was worried it might not have survived the trip. But there it was, twittering softly at him as he pulled the basket from the pack and set it on the table near his bed.

  He watched the iridescent wings shift as the beak opened and closed, wondering what was keeping it so calm…or him, for that matter. One of the presuil’s cries would send the inn and half of Belor’s Reach into an uproar, and if he were found with it in his room, Sha’nac only knew what he’d say to explain it. Yet for the first time in years, his senses were quiet, dully peaceful. “Tired,” he growled gruffly to himself as he watched the presuil kick its tiny legs about. “Too tired to think, too tired to care.”

  Reaching into the pack he drew out the case and opened it, removing one of the bottles and holding it to the light of the lantern on the table. The presuil’s twittering grew louder, and looking down he saw it straining its neck upwards. He hesitated, then inverted and lowered the bottle. When it was just a few inches away, the presuil grabbed the tip in its beak and began to suck greedily. And there Ja’keth sat, Fourth Warden of the Hammers, bloodsworn to defend the life and dominion of the Successor King of the Do’vend Empire, feeding an infant presuil.

  Days seemed to blur into each other, each with the same pattern: he’d wake up, groggily feed the presuil, then return the basket to his pack and place it beside his bed before heading downstairs where Far’sha and another resident of Belor’s Reach would be waiting to greet him—always with a smile and request for aid, anything from tracking down a wayward goat to helping harvest a wheat field to fixing a failing fence gate. He didn’t mind, though oddly he now felt more at peace taking care of the presuil in his room than he did with the villagers. It slept most of the time and only ate twice a day, no more than a third of a bottle each time—which was good, since Ja’keth had no idea what he was going to feed it when the milky liquid was gone. On one occasion he clumsily steered the mealtime conversation towards the subject of feeding practices for children, confusing to no end Far’sha and old Ca’rrack, who had come to visit.