“I’m one of Mother Turklyo’s summoners, but I do know a few healing spells.” Ancestors’ Hand inspected Swift Shot’s wounds. While Two Dogs had been gone, she’d taken it upon herself to use her fire magic to cauterize each wound to stop the bleeding. It was clearly what caused the scream from earlier. “Fortunately, the ball went through your body. You did a respectable job sealing the wounds. Since he took my knife away, I’ll have to focus using the igsidian in your shirt. I apologize for the intrusion. I can cast a simple spell to ensure infection doesn’t take you as we continue on our journey. It’ll also help dull the pain.”
“What journey?” Swift Shot asked.
Ancestors’ Hand summoned magical energy to Swift Shot’s body. The old woman’s hands glowed with yellow vapor as she held them on Swift Shot. The young woman’s scars remained the same when Ancestors’ Hand finally ended her spell.
“She should be fine now. Perhaps a bit sore, but she can travel with us to Intakee lands,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“Why are we going to Intakee lands?” Swift Shot asked as she rubbed her burns.
Ancestors’ Hand turned toward the closest tipi marked with the symbol of a healer. The flap was open, and Ancestors’ Hand stepped inside. Two Dogs and Swift Shot followed. Inside, Two Dogs identified this home as belonging to Strong Cure.
“We shouldn’t be in here,” Swift Shot said.
“It won’t take but a moment. You need plenty of clean bandages to keep yourself from picking at your wounds,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Swift Shot immediately dropped her hands to her side. Two Dogs suppressed a giggle as he watched her flick dry specks of blood from her fingernails.
Ancestors’ Hand flipped through some containers until she found clean bandages. She wrapped the green fabric around Swift Shot’s waist and tied it with an intricate knot.
“That should do . . . for now. Follow,” Ancestors’ Hand commanded.
Two Dogs and Swift Shot obeyed as they left Strong Cure’s tipi.
“Thank you for your help, but you aren’t in charge here,” Two Dogs said.
Ancestors’ Hand stopped and turned to face the Lacreechee. “What do you propose we do?”
“We need to gather the igsidian of the fallen,” Swift Shot said.
“Exactly,” Two Dogs agreed.
“We should grab some, but there isn’t enough time to gather it all. Just take the best pieces,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“We won’t be stealing igsidian from our neighbors!” Two Dogs shouted.
“Your neighbors? Your neighbors are dead. Just as Mother Turklyo has willed it.”
Two Dogs grabbed the shabby sack protecting Ancestors’ Hand’s modesty and shook her.
“Don’t speak ill of the Lacreechee!”
“I’m not!” Ancestors’ Hand shouted back. “However, I guarantee another Corlain battalion is coming, perhaps a whole brigade. We have thirty minutes at best to gather some supplies and leave.”
“We must defend their bodies. Mother Turklyo will want them burned with their igsidian since there aren’t any children to receive them,” Swift Shot said.
“What? Why would Mother Turklyo want you to burn igsidian? It’s her gift to her children. It doesn’t follow bloodlines.”
“You Intakee have perverted Mother Turklyo’s teachings,” Swift Shot said.
“No, apparently it’s the Lacreechee who don’t know their history. Starting with the augury of defeating a foreign oppressor.”
“Not this again!” Two Dogs shouted.
He was about to say something else when the faint beating of drums punctuated the silence between them.
“What’s that?” Swift Shot asked.
“Shh,” Ancestors’ Hand said. “It sounds like war drums.”
“Good,” Two Dogs stated. “More Corlains to kill. My blades will free their bodies of the burden of their blood.”
“As will I,” Swift Shot said while nocking an arrow.
“You imbeciles are determined to kill yourselves,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“I thought we were the chosen ones? How can the Corlains defeat us?” Two Dogs mocked.
“You need to learn Mother Turklyo’s lessons. Her augury proclaims that the survivor of a massacre will be our champion against a foreign army. It doesn’t say anything about that champion being able to do it without an army at his back,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Ancestors’ Hand removed her scraggly garments and tossed them onto the ground. Two Dogs and Swift Shot averted their eyes in disgust.
“I need new clothes with igsidian,” Ancestors’ Hand matter-of-factly stated.
“You aren’t Lacreechee and may not take any of our stones,” Two Dogs declared.
The drumbeat grew louder.
“Do you hear that?” Ancestors’ Hand asked. “The Corlains are about to take all the igsidian for their own evil purposes. You’d rather they get it?”
“They’ll face Mother Turklyo’s judgment for stealing from her children,” Two Dogs answered.
Ancestors’ Hand threw her arms up in disgust. “Fine. A plain robe will do. We must leave now. We can take a canoe up the Fraz River to Intakee lands.”
Swift Shot handed Ancestors’ Hand a plain turklyo-skin dress. Igsidian wasn’t embedded in it.
“I hope you two know what you’re doing, because I won’t be able to fight,” Ancestors’ Hand said as she pulled the dress over her head.
“What about the igsidian from the bull?” Swift Shot asked.
“I suppose some wasn’t gifted yet,” Two Dogs said. “Let’s grab the rest of that. We can sort it out on the river.”
The drumbeat grew even louder. Across the plains, Two Dogs could see banners flapping as the sun reflected off an endless mirror of bodies. Two Dogs had to look away. He searched the ground for a discarded Corlain helmet and used his knife to break out the red lens. It fractured with his blows, but Two Dogs grabbed a large enough piece to use as a monocle. He looked again at the approaching army.
Now that the lens filtered the obnoxious light, Two Dogs could take a count on what was approaching. The army was at least three times larger than the one they barely defeated an hour earlier. They also had more of the tubes on wheels that created so much carnage. Despite his eagerness to die in his homeland, he knew his tribe and Mother Turklyo wouldn’t forgive him for giving up without getting justice first.
“Five minutes, then we’re on the water,” Two Dogs said to the women. “I’ll get the igsidian my father hadn’t crafted yet. Swift Shot, you get food and water. Ancestors’ Hand, go back inside Strong Cure’s tipi and grab whatever medical supplies will best suit us. Five minutes and we meet at the river.”
“Got it,” Swift Shot said.
Ancestors’ Hand left without another word. Two Dogs rushed to his home. Inside, he found the bag with the remaining igsidian and his father’s tools. He must have worked quickly to make Swift Shot’s arrows and quiver before the celebration. It surprised Two Dogs that he had enough time left to make his necklace. They were simple enough jobs, but that meant his father forfeited the chance to boast about his son to the tribe when they had first returned. The thought made Two Dogs sniff.
Inside the bag were the last three pieces of igsidian. The first two were of equal length, approximately four inches long and two inches thick, likely meant for a pair of spears. The remaining piece was a disc about three inches across. Two Dogs secured the pieces and Owl Talon’s tools inside a turklyo-skin backpack.
He turned to leave, then stopped. On the floor was his newest eagle feather. Two Dogs’ hands trembled as he picked up his recent trophy. His heart pounded and his eyes burned. He let out a slow, calming breath as he took one last look at his home of the last thirty-two years. Two Dogs blinked away his tears and left.
Swift Shot and Ancestors’ Hand waited for him by the river. Three canoes drifted away with the current to the south. Swift Shot already sat in a fourth canoe. She also wore her new eagle
feather.
“Take this,” Two Dogs told Ancestors’ Hand as he handed her a pouch containing the disc-shaped igsidian.
Ancestors’ Hand graciously accepted it. “Thank you. I accept the gift.”
She hung the pouch around her neck.
“Say nothing more of it,” Two Dogs said. “How do we get to your people?”
“We’ll have to fight the current to get to Intakee lands, but the Corlains will hopefully expect us to go south to our Azca allies,” Swift Shot said.
“Good idea,” Two Dogs agreed.
“Yes, yes, genius. May we please go?” Ancestors’ Hand asked.
Two Dogs nodded. He and Ancestors’ Hand joined Swift Shot in the canoe. The young warriors grabbed an oar each and paddled at full strength. Swift Shot steered the canoe from the stern while Two Dogs used his enhanced strength to paddle from the bow.
“Don’t forget to add protection to our canoe,” Ancestors’ Hand said. “The Fraz River is known for its aggressive dakydile population.”
chapter 5
Murid crouched behind Egill, Hafoca, and several burly Vikisotes. Behind her were another dozen warriors, King Hafoca’s royal guard. The minty urine smell of crick oil surrounded her, if the aggressive grunts from warriors wasn’t enough of a sign. King Viktor’s death brought sadness throughout the kingdom. Although Murid felt terrible about losing the kind man who saved her when her parents were murdered, it relieved her knowing the month-long mourning period prohibited any further talk of marriage. Although, this meant that twenty-seven days from now, she’d likely be forced to marry. A king would always need his queen.
The Vikisotes had specific events required in a certain order following the death of royalty. When the queen had died fifteen years earlier, Murid had been too young to partake in most. Now, as the queen apparent, she found herself hiding behind one of many white spruce trees in the dense mountain forest. To prove the new king’s courage, he must track and kill a wild crick. Murid had never seen a living crick, but she slept under the warm pelt of one each night.
The rules stated Hafoca could bring up to thirty people with him, but for each reduction, he would earn more favor from the gods. It didn’t surprise Murid that he still brought twenty with him. That was eight more than King Viktor had deemed necessary. Many throughout the kingdom had murmured as much.
The guards ahead of Murid halted. Those following also ceased to move. Murid gripped the spear in her hand tightly. Stopping could only mean the trackers had found a clue to where there may be a crick den.
“What have you found?” Hafoca whispered loudly.
One of the trackers scrambled over to Hafoca. He quickly caught his breath before speaking.
“King Hafoca, we have a den about forty meters north of here,” he answered.
“What’s the problem then?” Egill asked.
“A juvenile went in moments after we spotted the den. We’re upwind of the den, so we must sneak back and circle around,” the tracker said.
Hafoca was incredulous. “What? Why would we sneak away like cowards? We only need to fell a crick. It doesn’t matter the age.”
“King Hafoca, a juvenile and a den mean a mother is close by. She’ll fiercely defend her young, which could be as many as six cubs,” Egill said.
“Plus, the juvenile crick was very close to maturing. We don’t have enough men here to guarantee no casualties. It’ll be safer to leave,” the tracker said.
He looked increasingly nervous as the group stayed so close to the den. Murid didn’t fully understand the fight, but she knew enough to listen to experience when it spoke.
“Hafoca, we should turn back,” Murid said.
Hafoca smirked like she was still a child and he knew better. “Relax, my love, the mother is likely away hunting for food. We can claim one of the young and leave before she returns.”
Murid glanced between Egill and the tracker. Neither looked pleased with Hafoca’s false confidence. However, if the past fifteen years had taught her anything, it was that Hafoca was prideful. He was likely more terrified, but he would never admit that to his warriors. Despite the taste of bile that always accompanied this particular thought, Murid knew what she had to do.
“Hafoca, please.” Murid tugged on his arm and added false fear to her voice. “I don’t want to be here. I’m sorry for coming in the first place, but I know I’m not strong enough to face a crick, regardless of its size.”
Egill nodded. He likely knew she was manipulating Hafoca, but Murid also knew he believed women should never be on these hunts. Hafoca seemed to fall for her ruse once again.
“My sweet Murid, somehow I knew your courage would wane. Do you see why I think it’s foolish to want to go to war with Corla?” Hafoca said. “On our wedding night, I’ll bathe you in your first crick oil. It will give you the courage you desire.”
Murid clenched her jaw. Was Hafoca manipulating her? Murid shook the thought away.
“Hafoca, when we attack Corla, we’ll bring our full might at their weakest outposts. Here we are weak and the prey has all the advantages,” Murid said.
Egill suppressed a smile, but Hafoca seemed to notice it. His eyes grew hard as he squeezed his right hand into a fist.
“Flush them out,” Hafoca commanded.
“Yes, King Hafoca,” the tracker said.
Hafoca nocked an arrow as the tracker grabbed three warriors with halberds. The four men moved to the mouth of the cave the juvenile crick used for a home. Two stood on each side with their weapons at the ready. Hafoca moved to the clearing directly in front of the cave. He signaled with his head for the tracker to begin.
The tracker pulled a small pouch off his belt. He loosened the cord that held it closed, then placed a pinch of magnesium flakes into the pouch. The chemical mixture produced a dense cloud of white smoke. The tracker tossed the binary reaction into the mouth of the dark cave and immediately moved away from the entrance, his own halberd now firmly in his hand.
Murid listened as howls roared from the den. Those closest to Murid, even Egill, shifted uncomfortably. Mother was apparently home.
“Be ready,” Egill said.
“For what?” Murid asked.
“You’ll see.”
The first crick that raced out of the den was a juvenile, likely the one the tracker initially identified. It howled in pain as it ran in frantic circles. Hafoca sent three arrows into its face and cut its misery short. The young brown animal rolled over and could easily have been mistaken for a harmless grizzly cub.
“You see? Simple!” Hafoca shouted to his citizens.
The mother crick roared again and emerged. It stood on its hind legs and screamed a challenge at the humans before it. Murid wet herself when she saw what was before her. The crick was nearly two hundred kilograms and stood over two meters. The thick shaggy hair still smoked from the tracker’s grenade. It had black claws that were twelve centimeters long and dripped with a venom that could kill a man inside three minutes. The most terrifying aspect of the beast was its head. The body may have resembled a bear, but the face reminded Murid of a serpent. It was scaly with a forked tongue. Its hood flared as it roared another challenge at Hafoca and the rest of the Vikisotes.
Hafoca fired an arrow at the crick. It dug into the chest of the animal and made it furious. It dropped to all fours and charged Hafoca. Hafoca panicked and tripped backward. His arrows spilled from his quiver as he scampered away on his hindquarters. The tracker swung his halberd and cut deeply into the crick’s rear leg. The animal roared again and changed its direction.
The tracker had just enough time to scream before the crick unhinged its jaw and bit the man’s head. The animal lifted the tracker off the ground and flung him into the rock wall of the cave’s entrance. The crick flailed its front paws and left furrows in the throat and chest of a guard standing by the cave.
“Stay here,” Egill commanded Murid. He gripped his axe and charged toward the crick.
The remaining warri
ors followed Egill except two who stayed with Murid. They formed a circle around the crick. It spat venom at one warrior but only splashed on his leather armor. The man frantically removed his bracer before the venom could burn through. Egill swung with his axe and pushed the crick farther back. A warrior stabbed it in the back with his spear while its attention was divided.
Hafoca stood again and fired an arrow. His aim was off due to the shaking in his arms. The arrow flew wide and passed through the hood on the crick’s head. The animal roared again. All the warriors stepped back, widening the circle. They poked at the enraged crick, but none of the attacks, save those by Egill, seemed legitimate.
Another guard, careless with his distance, shrieked after being scratched on his hand. He screamed as he fell to his knees. Murid watched as the man convulsed. White spittle frothed around his lips. Nobody seemed inclined to help the man as they continued to bait the crick with ineffective thrusts.
Hafoca appeared to lose any will to fight. He stood there with his bow in hand, but all arrows remained scattered at his feet.
“Hafoca! You have the only bow! Shoot her!” Murid shouted.
“We have her, King Hafoca,” Egill said. “The shot is yours to take.”
Hafoca grabbed an arrow, but his trembling fingers couldn’t secure it. It, along with the next two, fell back to the leaf-covered forest dirt.
“This is ridiculous,” Murid said, more to herself than anyone else.
She sprinted past her two bodyguards and raced into the clearing where Hafoca shook with fear. Without a word, she snatched the bow from his hand. Then, she retrieved the arrows that Hafoca dropped. She ensured the guards still had the crick at bay. It looked like the same stalemate. She stabbed two arrows into the dirt and aimed with the third. Thankfully, the animal was taller than the warriors. She was clear to aim at its face.
Hafoca collapsed to his knees and covered his eyes. More than one warrior spared a glance in his direction as he detached himself from the moment. Murid calmed her breathing and focused on the space between the crick’s eyes. She let the first arrow fly. Before she registered the roar of the animal, she fired again. Then, again. Murid moved to the next closest arrow behind her and grabbed it. When she turned back to her target, she heard cheers.
Augury Answered Page 7