Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

  Denrel crept through the deepening forest gloom, the faint glow of sunset almost gone and the air of early autumn cooling quickly.

  It had been more than a couple of years since he had last seen the long-knives.

  He had hoped they were gone, for good.

  At least this time he had his bow with him. He wasn’t defenseless, although he wielded it poorly. He didn’t like killing the creatures of the forest and never ate their flesh. It tasted too much of fear and pain to him. His foraging skills were directed mostly to edible and medicinal plants.

  Yatlow crept silently nearby. He was the best hunter in the tribe. Every shot was clean and rarely left prey to struggle in half-life for more than a moment.

  Not that they expected to use their bows. These long-knives were almost comical in how they blundered through the trees, acting as if they thought they were being stealthy but making so much racket that a deaf child could hear them from a kilometer away.

  Denrel stifled a nervous laugh as he watched them smash their way into a small clearing. Crouching behind a tree, he signaled Yatlow to join him. It looked like the long-knives were stopping for the night. They hacked away a few offending saplings and some brush from the clearing, their raucous voices shattering the peace and chasing the night songs deeper into the forest.

  Wherever they were heading, they weren’t there yet.

  “What now?” he asked, his lips close to Yatlow’s ear and his voice so soft it couldn’t be heard more than a pace away.

  “Get closer, listen,” he whispered.

  “Should we wait until they settle down?”

  “No, they be like lumbering bears, easily avoided. We must not miss their talk. Come,” Yatlow said urgently, then faded into the underbrush.

  Denrel followed. He eased into a thicket next to Yatlow. They were close enough to pick out the thread of conversation battling through the small group.

  “Hey, you, Smet, get some wood, start a fire,” one particularly large long-knife commanded while standing over a smaller form sprawled on the ground.

  “Why me?” Smet grumbled, sitting up. “Tell Grundle to do it. He’s always eager to kiss your ass.”

  “Get up,” the big long-knife growled hauling the smaller one to his feet by the back of his shirt. He sent Smet sprawling toward the far edge of the clearing with a foot. “Question me again and we’ll see whose ass gets attention.” Grundle, leaning against a tree, grinned and said something to the man next to him. They both laughed. The big man glared at them. “And you, Grundle, clear an area for the fire.”

  “Yes sir, Lieutenant Skarbrand,” Grundle answered, still grinning as he rose to comply.

  The lieutenant shrugged off his pack and dropped it to the ground. He knelt before it and untied his bedroll, laid it out next to the pack, and then sat down. His eyes darted around the camp, examining the shadowy forms sprawled haphazardly within the clearing. The other two members of their troop were trying to watch the action without catching the lieutenant’s eye. One failed. Leveling an arm at him, the lieutenant said, “You, get some food ready to cook.” With an inaudible snarl, the man dragged himself to his feet and rummaged in several discarded packs to gather the supplies.

  “Lieutenant, sir,” Grundle said, scraping an area clear of leaves and sticks, “how close are we?”

  “Three, four more days,” the lieutenant answered idly. “A few more days of this forest crap and then we can have some fun,” he said, his voice mechanical, as if reciting from a list.

  “Couldn’t we take the road? Be a lot easier, and faster.”

  Sounding almost pleasant, Skarbrand said, “Orders. Stay off the roads. Avoid detection. Kill anyone who sees you. You know the drill.”

  Grundle brushed aside the remaining detritus from the fire pit and sat back on his haunches. “How many places are we going to hit?”

  “Just the one,” the lieutenant said, relaxing. He reached into a big pocket on his jacket, removed a flask, and took a long swallow. He shook it, as if listening to the slosh of liquid inside. Grunting, he dropped it back into his pocket.

  “Some of the men say they heard there are a couple of fine women at this one,” Grundle continued, looking enviously at the lieutenant’s pocket.

  “That’s what the captain said but you bring them to me first.” Then, louder, his voice harsh, he said, “You understand, all you fugduns? You bring me the women first.” There was a mumble of insincere replies.

  Denrel looked sharply at Yatlow, his face pale. Yatlow, mouth set in a grimace, indicated that they should continue listening.

  At that moment, Smet stumbled back into camp, dropped an armload of wood, and sprawled back on the ground. Grundle grinned at the lieutenant and then scrambled to get the fire started.

  The lieutenant reached into his pocket again and withdrew the flask. Holding it next to his ear, he shook it, scowled, then thrust it back into his pocket. “Hey, fugdun, cook me some dinner,” he yelled before sitting back on his bedroll, grabbed his sword and a grindstone, and began sharpening it with long, even strokes.

  The various threads of conversation that Denrel heard among the men as they ate and prepared to retire for the night were more than Denrel could endure. His Horror Vision of the recent past crashed back into his mind, overwhelming his senses. He touched Yatlow on the shoulder and then withdrew from the thicket, almost running to escape. Yatlow caught up with him and pulled on his arm to stop him.

  Denrel put his hands over his face as Yatlow spoke. “Truly, there is naught we can do.”

  “Can we warn of the crouching evil?”

  “Nay, time favors us not and we know naught of where they travel.”

  “But they must travel yet south to the topper’s village of Meldon,” Denrel protested.

  “To where in Meldon? There are many topper farms scattered about there that we know not. It’s far from our tribe.”

  “We can warn many along the path. The warn will spread.”

  “We haven’t the shields of daylight to travel the day. We have not performed the appropriate protocol. This thing you desire, we can do it not.”

  “These creatures,” he protested weakly, his head bowed, “they reek of the taint. Might we pass the purging-of-sacrifice onto them?” He raised agonized eyes to Yatlow, the Horror Vision fading behind a smoldering determination. “What of the toppers? Will not their wrenched souls create much disharmony?” Denrel argued.

  Yatlow gripped his shoulders and stared into his eyes, his voice firm, urgent. “Speak not of a purging. This you know. The purging-of-sacrifice can only be performed after a protocol of inquiry in High-Unity.” Then, more softly, he said, “These things we hear are may-be, they are not things that be. Things of may-be are of Spirit and must be judged in Unity. There is much we know not.”

  “Aye, so be it,” Denrel said, deflating. “Yet I fear this may-be. I fear its disharmony.”

  “You are right to do so,” Yatlow agreed. “Let us hurry back to our tribe. This thing must be judged.”

  They flowed like barely seen silhouettes wafting through the night forest, leaving neither leaf nor twig disturbed by their passage. Denrel’s thoughts were lost among ghostly images that pushed into his mind from elsewhere: a woman pounded by the tainted creatures and the high-scream of a child against a backdrop of flames and dark smoke. He tried to touch the beauty-of-oneness to reassure himself but it remained elusive, out of reach. This he feared most of all, that they failed to properly read the portents, that they now rushed away from that which should-be.

  They traveled south, back toward Capstone. Several hours later they arrived at the deep overhang that served as the main entrance to their tribe’s den, the Flame of Unity, one of the eleven Flames of Truth that the Caps worshiped. Four of the eleven Cap tribes populating the Chain Mountains made their homes near the toppers’ trading village of Capstone. The Four-Tribes were the only ones that typically dealt directly with toppers. The other seven preferred to exchange service-pr
oducts through the established Four-Tribes.

  They descended into the cooling shadows of the den. Yatlow began to shuck the camouflaging top-robe but Denrel stopped him with a hand. “Should one follow the creatures? If there be inquiry, must one bring an observation?”

  Yatlow hesitated, considering. “This speaks true,” he decided. “Who will go?”

  “I must go,” Denrel stated flatly. “I feel the grip of onus.”

  Yatlow studied him closely and then said, “Thus it must be. This, too, will I pass to Pastor and Elder. We bide for your observation. Hurry. The night wanes and the creatures of the morning stir soon,” he said, then turned and hastened deeper into the cavern.

  Denrel let out a slow breath to steady his nerves. This wasn’t something that he wanted to face but he felt there was no choice. OneGod moves us in many ways and I must follow.

  He picked up a day pack from an alcove near the entrance along with a few loaves of travel cake, strapped his bow and quiver to the pack and, slipping it over his shoulders, went back topside.

  Denrel decided to follow the road north toward Brendon’s Cross partway, then cut across east to where the long-knives had sheltered. It would save some time. It was unlikely any toppers would be traveling at this time of night.

  Once he arrived back at the campsite he crept into the same thicket he had used before.

  The camp was quiet, the fire barely smoldering and the night songs clear and undisturbed. One long-knife sat propped against a tree, snoring lightly. Probably a guarder, Denrel thought. These creatures were sloppy, not to be feared, he tried to convince himself. They would be easy prey.

  He settled in to wait, his apprehensions momentarily subdued, and let his thoughts harmonize with the oneness.

  A short while later, just as the soft glow of twilight began to wash away the stars, there was a snorting and rustling from near the fire pit. Lieutenant Skarbrand abruptly sat up, hawking, and spit into the remains of the fire. He looked around, his eyes pausing on the sleeping guarder, and then reached into his pocket for his flask. He took a deep swallow and, dropping it back, struggled to his feet. He walked over to the guarder and drew his foot back for a swift kick.

  “Har,” the long-knife said, rolling to the side, evading the boot. “Thought I was sleeping, eh?” He scrambled to his feet. “Well, har, just fooling you.”

  The lieutenant glared at him. “Well, fool,” he sneered, “stoke the fire, start breakfast.” The lieutenant went around the campsite, kicking anyone who was not fast enough to get out of the way. “Get it going, fugduns,” he yelled. “We break camp and move south in a half hour.” He approached the thicket, uncomfortably close to Denrel, and relieved himself.

  After he returned to alternately cursing and threatening his men, Denrel withdrew. That was too close and he needed to put on his day cloak and cap anyway.

  After a quick meal, the long-knives gathered their things and crashed into the forest, heading south toward Meldon.

  Denrel followed closely for a while, listening for any additional snippets of information he could use for the inquiry. The lieutenant kept his troop quiet, at least what he must have supposed was quiet. Between the swath of destruction and the crunching of booted feet, there was little chance Denrel would lose them in the forest. He therefore decided to drop back several hundred meters, his senses alert to the sounds and signs of the forest.

  They passed well east of Capstone and his den. From the way the lieutenant kept pausing at each clearing to re-reckon their path from the sun, Denrel suspected that it was intentional. These long-knives knew much about the surrounding territory. Denrel found this intensely disturbing. How many were there? How long had they been stomping through these forests and mountains? Where were they from? What was their purpose? The questions in his mind seemed endless, but there were no answers.

  The day faded into another night, another repeat of the long-knives setting camp and retiring. Denrel, eyes heavy, dozed from time to time, waiting for dawn and another day of following.