“There be a shape on the bed,” Ymitoth hollered from around the corner. “She looks to be sleeping.”
“With no fire?” Maelich replied. “She will freeze once the night takes hold.”
He slowly pushed the door open, poked his head inside and in a soft voice asked, “Goechal, are you well?”
Goechal didn’t reply.
Maelich tried again, his voice a bit stronger this time, “Goechal?”
The shape on the bed stirred, but remained silent.
Ymitoth pushed past Maelich into the hut and said in a rather loud tone, “Goechal, the lad here ain’t about to let ye be resting your weary eyes. Tell him that ye be resting and he ought be leaving ye to be.”
Goechal finally rolled toward them and opened her eyes, mumbling something inaudible.
“What was that?” Maelich asked, far more relieved than he needed to be.
“I be weary, lad,” she replied weakly.
Maelich practically skipped over to the bed, reached into the sack containing all of the medallions Ymitoth had salvaged from Shellar’s remains, and produced a stack of five he had tied together. All of them were etched with the image of a great fish breaking the surf, the symbol of Belscythia. Hopefully one of them had belonged to Brakken. Maelich untied the bundle and spread them out on the bed next to Goechal.
“Oh sweet lad,” she said, her voice faint, weak, and slightly crackling. “Ye killed that witch and brought home me sweet Brakken’s crest.”
“I did kill Shellar,” Maelich smiled. Then he picked up one of the medallions and examined it, “I have five medallions bearing the crest of Belscythia. Are you able to determine if one of these belonged to Brakken?”
“Aye,” Goechal’s voice remained weak, but her eyes sparkled. “Be there anything carved in the back of any of them?”
Maelich began flipping them over and examining their backsides. “Yes,” he replied. “Two of them have some form of inscription on them.”
“Put them two in me hands,” her voice gained a bit of strength and she sat up in the bed. A smile using every inch of her face spread across it.
A matching smile spread across Maelich’s face. Goechal’s enthusiasm made her appear at least 20 summers younger than she seemed when he first met her. He handed her the two potential emblems, nearly as excited as she was.
The gleam of her eyes was so bright it remained remarkable even through her deeply squinting expression. Those eyes examined the first one closely for a few moments before Goechal tossed it to the side and said, “That ain’t be the one.” Then she pulled the other closer to her face and applied the same scrutiny. After an equal amount of time, her form deflated, those twenty years she seemed to drop only moments prior rushed back like a herd of stampeding tubber. She threw the medallion across the room. “That ain’t be the one neither.” A tear perched itself on her left eyelid, threatening to fall. Before it could, her eyes widened and her smile returned, “Them ain’t be the only two. Give me the rest.”
Maelich quickly collected them all and handed them over. He thought about reminding her he hadn’t found any inscriptions on any of them but decided against it. She would learn on her own soon enough without his help. Commenting on it would probably only make it worse. As he prepared to console the poor, old woman, who was most certainly about to be crushed by the lack of evidence of her husband’s honesty, his mind drifted.
“Aha,” she cried. The volume her small, frail form achieved was shocking enough to make Maelich jump. “Aye lad, with your eyes so young and fresh, ye ain’t seen nothing years of loving someone be helping old, failing eyes to see.”
Goechal used her sleeve to polish up the one prang medallion remaining in her hands. The tears finally came, but they poured onto a wide smile. As Maelich watched her admire the crest, she appeared more like a young maiden gazing at the object of her affection than an old woman just waiting to die alone in the woods. “Oh Brakken,” she gushed, “I knew ye’d been faithful to me. I ain’t never doubted ye for a moment.”
Goechal remained like that, glowing and doting over the symbol of her love. Ymitoth sat at the table while Maelich leaned on the edge of the bed. Both stared dopey-eyed and smiling at the result of the good work they had done. Maelich looked back at Ymitoth and winked. The scene playing out before them on the bed was the hero’s payment. It is a hard life. The trail is unforgiving. But the payment is oh so sweet. No amount of prang or precious jewels could ever match the value of true appreciation. Goechal had been holding onto a belief. To see that faith justified was everything she had been living for.
Finally Goechal looked over at Maelich and held the back of the medallion up close to his face. “Look here lad,” she said, continuing to smile through the tears. “Be looking close now too. It be faint, but it be there.”
Maelich squinted at the spot that Goechal’s wrinkled finger pointed to. There was something there. It was so faint the quick examination he had performed earlier missed it. It was definitely there though. He read it out loud, “Root.”
Goechal pulled the medallion back to her bosom, leaned her head back, and in a joyous tone shouted, “Aye, Root. That be what me Brakken had been calling me since the day I said I’d be his wife and spend all the rest of me days with him.”
Maelich leaned his head to the side and asked, “Root?”
Goechal laughed in his face, her excitement getting the best of her and stealing her control. “Aye, Root,” she shouted again.
“That be an odd name to be calling somebody,” Ymitoth interjected.
As impossible as it seemed, Goechal’s smile widened even further, “Not if ye be knowing me Brakken it ain’t. That day he married me he looked dead in me eyes and said, ‘I be calling ye Root from this day on. Ye be the root that be keeping me grounded, the root that be keeping me centered, and the root our family be growing from.” The tears kept pouring from Goechal’s eyes as she continued, “It may be sounding funny to ye or any other that be hearing it. Me Brakken he ain’t been no poet or nothing, but them words he spoke right out of his heart. And I knew what meaning they carried to him. I been his Root since that day and that name be meaning the world to me. I be hearing his voice in it.”
“It does not sound funny to me at all,” Maelich replied. “Your Brakken sounds like a fine man who loved you above all else.”
“Aye,” Ymitoth agreed. “He be sounding like a fine man indeed.”
Goechal didn’t say another word. She kissed the medallion and pulled it back into her bosom. Then she laid her head back on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and continued to mumble words of affection to her husband who had died so many years ago. After a few moments, her mumbling stopped. After a few more moments, her chest stopped shallowly rising and falling. A few more moments after that, her eyes grayed over and one final breath left her body. The smile never left her face, and Brakken’s medallion with the term of endearment scratched onto the back of it remained tightly in her grip, firmly pressed against her heart.
Warmth began in Maelich’s chest and swelled up into his cheeks. A moment later, tears quickly spilled over his eyelids. He was swift to wipe them away and close his eyes up tight in an attempt to stop more from coming. It proved a fruitless effort. When he opened them back up a fresh batch poured forth freely and ran down his cheeks. Ymitoth glanced over at him when a sniffle took him by surprise and filled the small hut with its sound.
“Ye be crying?” Ymitoth asked with earnest concern. The sarcastic tone that would normally accompany a question about tears amongst warriors was thankfully absent.
“I cannot help it,” Maelich gave in and lost himself in sobs as he fell to his knees beside Goechal’s bed and rested his hand on her cool forehead.
Ymitoth walked over, placed his hand on Maelich’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and said, “There ain’t be nothing to be crying about lad. Ye brung peace to this poor soul. She’d been hanging on hoping for someone to make an end to her story. Ye gave her that gif
t lad.”
“I know that, but this does not feel like a happy ending,” Maelich’s cadence was slow and choppy as his words fell inelegantly from his mouth, randomly interrupted by sobs.
“Sure it be happy,” Ymitoth gave Maelich’s shoulder another squeeze. “Just look at that smile what ye put on that face of her’s. That be real joy right there, lad, and ye brung her that joy. This be a happy ending.”
“I know but…” Maelich’s voice trailed off as he laid his head down upon the bed next to Goechal’s body and wept. Ymitoth gave his shoulder one more squeeze and then he stepped out of the hut to give Maelich a chance to get all of his emotion out.
As Maelich knelt, weeping next to the corpse of a woman he didn’t really know, life seemed completely absurd. Why do it? Why do anything? If all anyone had to look forward to was dying, what was the point? What did it all mean? Goechal probably lived fifteen summers more than she should have clinging to a hope that someone would bring her peace. In the end, what difference did it make? She died with a smile. So what? She was still dead. What purpose did it serve?
Questions continued to swirl around Maelich’s head. Sadly, there were no answers to accompany them. They were all the questions great minds ponder but never really answer. Sure they theorize, but none of them really know anything. They merely weave something that makes them feel like there might be some point to everything, but really there isn’t. People live, they fill their lives with distractions, and then they die and return to the Lake. At the end of it all, there is no difference between the man who spends his life sitting on a rock and the man who spends his life saving the world. In the end they are both the same, food for the Lake.
Ymitoth was sitting on a log, splitting a long blade of grass into several thin strips, challenging himself to see just how thin he could get them when Maelich finally emerged from the hut. “Did ye say all of your good-byes to the old soul?” he asked.
Maelich nodded as he rubbed his puffy, red eyes and replied, “I did. I have nothing left to say or think about it. I left it all in that hut.”
The two men gathered wood and built a pyre. They were able to find plenty of solid, dry stuff around the hut. When the platform was finished, it was about six feet long, four feet wide, and four feet tall. After all the heavy lifting was finished, the two men washed Goechal’s body and prepared her for the pyre. Ymitoth laid her out on the platform of sticks while Maelich gathered as many trinkets from the hut—that appeared to have some meaning—as he could find. After all of those trinkets had been placed around the body, Ymitoth used his flint to fire up a brand.
Ymitoth paused with the burning stick in his hand, looked at Maelich, and asked, “Have ye got any words ye would be sending her off with?”
Maelich stared at the body in silence for a few moments and decided, “No. I am all out of words. There is nothing I could say at this moment that would carry any meaning.”
“Aye,” Ymitoth nodded and offered some of his own. “Oh great Lake, father of all life, take this woman into your peaceful waters. She been a good, faithful soul for all her days. Please be showing her the peace she be deserving.”
Ymitoth bowed after delivering his brief prayer. Then he tossed the brand onto the pyre. The dry wood caught immediately. In a matter of a few moments, a healthy fire was quickly consuming it. Ymitoth stood with his head bowed as the fire burned. Maelich watched though. He kept his eyes on Goechal’s body as the fire first licked it, then caught hold of her gown, and finally covered it completely. The flames danced and zigged, racing up her form and back. Maelich lost himself in their movement. The soul finds water and the body finds flame. In the end, the only evidence is ash blowing in the wind. What was the point of it all?
chapter 41
three queens in druindahl
Three days had passed on the trail by the time Fielstag and Borgan reached the edge of the Forgotten Forest. They would have made the trip far more quickly if not for a run in with a small pack of exceptionally brazen Amatilazo. There were only five of them and they appeared sickly. Not to mention the sun had barely dipped below the horizon, and the sky was still splashed with color. Amatilazo typically waited for the safety of the darkest hours of night. They were fierce, but no match for two battle-hardened veterans of Havenstahl’s army.
“Be minding the treetops,” Fielstag said quietly as both men slowed their horses to a trot. “I only been in this forest once after fighting a battle right on this very spot. Druindahl be having scouts all up and around them treetops. They probably been watching us all the way down the mountain.”
“Aye,” Borgan agreed. “I fought in that battle too. I had been pretty green at the time, but I saw them arrows flying out of them trees.”
Fielstag nodded and looked up toward the canopy. A memory of what might be lurking within the cover of the dense leaves slipped through his mind before slithering down his spine in the form of a subtle chill. After trembling its way through him, that chill settled into an odd coolness between his shoulder blades; something closer to fear than a warrior would like to admit. Aside from being masters of the horse, the warriors of Druindahl were also masters of the trees. They could move about the canopy in near complete silence, like ghosts slipping through the foliage. He had witnessed the prowess of those ghosts first hand. Hopefully, he would have a chance to identify himself as friend before earning an arrow in the heart.
“We’ll be losing the light soon,” Borgan interrupted Fielstag’s thoughts. “Maybe we ought camp for the night and be attacking this dark forest when it be at least dimly lit. It be pretty dark in there already.”
Fielstag shook his head, “We already been taking too much time. For all we know, them grizzly mongs what you seen may already be cutting our people down. We’ll be taking it slow and walking our horses.”
With that, Fielstag leapt down from his horse and looked around the ground at the very edge of the trees. His long, blonde hair hung down into his face. He brushed it back as he stooped to snag a fallen branch. It was about six feet long and a good three inches in diameter. With a few slight modifications, it would suit his purpose perfectly. He grabbed the thicker end with his right hand and about halfway down the shaft with his left hand. Then he broke the thing over his knee. The result was a piece just over two feet long and another piece just under four feet long. The latter he snapped over his knee in the same fashion, not quite in half. After the effort, he rose with his prize of two sticks just over two feet long. Sticks in hand, he walked over to his horse and fumbled around in one of his sacks until he found what he was looking for. After a few moments, a strip of cloth had been ripped in half and each half had been wrapped around one of the sticks. He set one down on his saddle, picked up a jar of liquid and soaked the fabric on the stick remaining in his hand. After setting the jar down on the ground, he picked up his flint, struck it near the fabric, and the torch sparked to life. He walked over and handed the blazing thing to Borgan. Then he repeated the steps with the other stick.
“These will definitely be helping,” Borgan nodded as he hopped off of his horse.
Fielstag smiled, “They won’t be helping us see them scouts up in them trees, but they’ll certainly be helping us find our way.”
“Aye, but what be our way?” Borgan asked. “We ain’t got no idea where we ought be going once we get inside them woods.”
“Now that ain’t all true,” Fielstag shook his head. “We ain’t spent a long time here, but we spent some after that great battle. The going will be slow, but we be finding our way. Besides, it won’t be long before their guards be coming to challenge us.”
Hours slipped by as the two men led their horses slowly through the dark forest. They had to stop twice to rework their brands after exhausting all of the fuel and fabric. The torches cast an orange glow surrounding them in a dome of light with about a ten foot radius. Beyond the dim glow sat blackness upon blackness. No starlight or moonlight proved hearty enough to penetrate the thick canopy of
the forest. On a few occasions they heard rustling sounds from beyond their small dome of protection. Some of those sounds seemed loud enough to be made by men. No one came to accost them or question them though. Two battle hardened soldiers slowly shrunk into a couple of frightened lads; eyes darting around at every out of place sound, quietly begging for the light of day. A screech tore through the darkness. It was loud enough to make both men jump and send their horses into a fit of stamping and whinnying. Borgan even dropped his torch.
“What on Ouloos be that?” Borgan whispered as quietly as he could amid heavy breaths and a racing heart. The only sound he had ever heard that remotely reminded him of the horrifying screech was a squeal his sister Pinella had made when they were both very young. Dingum, their scrod, had begun behaving strangely, displaying unusually high amounts of aggression. One day during a game of chase, the scrod caught up to her and bit into her hand. His fangs pushed all the way through from one side to the other. The sound she made as Dingum chomped into her flesh was almost as horrible as that screech. Dingum was killed for the assault and Pinella’s hand was never the same. The sad memory somehow made the awful sound from somewhere among the trees even more terrifying.
Fielstag quickly regained his composure. Unlike his shivering comrade, he had heard the sound before. “That be a horny witch,” he replied. The oppressive dark still had him feeling rather timid and small, but knowledge of the source of that awful sound somehow placed his mind just a bit more at ease. Knowing what creepy things were eyeing them from beyond the safety of the dim glow of their torches gave him the slightest feeling of power.
“What be that?” Borgan whispered. “I ain’t never been hearing of no such thing as a horny witch.”
“It be nothing more than a big bird that be hunting the small things scurrying about the forest floor in the darkness. There be myths about them turning into powerful, horrifying witches what can turn men into beasts like fallon or tubber. There ain’t no truth to them tales though. They just be big birds that make an awful shriek. That shriek be what earned them that name of witch. And the feathers that be above their eyes be standing up tall like horns. Ye be putting them two ideas together and there ye be having horny witches. They ain’t no cause for fear.” As Fielstag assured his companion, his own fear continued to diminish.
Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Page 29