by Tod Langley
8
The Hunters of Shuru Kaithep
Kristian watched Maurin trip on another half-buried root and fall flat on the floor, the wind knocked out of him. One of the woodsmen picked him up but did not say a word. The way the hunter averted his eyes confirmed Kristian’s belief that these men were uncomfortable interacting with outsiders. Maurin thanked him, but the hunter had already moved away.
The twisting paths, turning in every direction, disoriented the newcomers. They depended entirely upon the instincts of their rescuers in the dark and gloomy tunnel.
Kristian turned to Cairn who walked right behind them. “How did you find us?” Kristian asked.
Cairn described how easy it had been to follow them south toward the forest. “When I finally reached the edge of the woods, I talked to some of the hunters and discovered that I had just missed you. I also knew that you were in considerable danger,” Cairn told him. “The Atlunam fought off the Belarnians when they had charged into the forest. They won’t suffer fools or invaders.”
Cairn ducked his head under an exposed root and continued. “They spotted other patrols moving further west and heard strange reports of an army moving silently during the night. The massive force had not yet tried to enter the forest, but the size of the army concerned the Atlunam scouts,” Cairn said.
Kristian bumped his head on a protruding clump of roots. He looked around him in discomfort. The passage was narrow and cramped leaving barely enough room for one person to walk through. Everyone had to duck constantly to keep the dangling roots from catching on their cloaks or equipment. Kristian worried that the earthen walls might collapse with any extreme movement or sound.
“Don’t worry. These hunters have used this tunnel for centuries. There is a cavern ahead. We will probably stop there and rest,” Cairn said.
Soon the tunnel widened, opening into a large cavern. The woods folk, or Atlunam, as Maurin and Cairn called them, fanned out and dropped their packs to rest. One of the Atlunam pulled a few hunters to the side, speaking in low tones. When he finished, the two hunters pulled out their canteens, took long drinks of water, and then trotted down another tunnel out of sight.
The one who had spoken watched the hunters leave and then turned to meet with Cairn. The man was so much like the others that Kristian had a hard time differentiating between him and the other Atlunam hunters. The hunter was tall and slim. Loose strands of blonde hair fell in front of his face hiding his eyes, but Kristian knew they were almond shaped and dark blue, like all of the woods folk. The only significant difference Kristian saw was the green and gray sash he wore around his waist.
The hunter stopped in front of Cairn, speaking in a strange language Kristian had never heard before. His voice was deep and resonant, and the words that he spoke seemed almost like a song. Kristian struggled to distinguish individual words from the smooth, flowing cadence. Kristian was surprised when Cairn nodded and said something back to the hunter in the same language.
After they finished and Cairn looked up, Kristian gave him a puzzled look.
Cairn gestured toward the hunter saying, “Kristian, this is Hin’cabo un Kaithep. He is the Chief Huntsman of Shuru Kaithep.” Hearing his name, Hin’cabo nodded curtly. “He does not speak our language very well. He has never spoken with anyone from the north before. I was able to find Hin’cabo and his patrol just as the Belarnians picked up your trail.”
“Cairn,” Kristian asked, “how do you know these people? How did you find us? How did you—”
“Slow down, Kristian. We can talk about all these things later. Take a few moments to rest. We will be leaving again soon. Hin’cabo has agreed to take us to his village where you can speak to the Council about Ferral’s army.”
Cairn saw Kristian’s confused look. “Remember when I said that the best place to look for help would be with the woods folk? You’ll never get the chance to speak to their king if you can’t even get into the trees.”
“Thank you, Cairn. You’ve saved my life twice now. I won’t ever forget that.” Cairn turned his head away from Kristian, spotting Mikhal sitting beside Maurin. The would-be healer inspected a small cut on the cavalier’s arm. Hin’cabo was also looking at Mikhal.
“Uba kha Atlunam, khrub,” Hin’cabo said to Cairn. The two continued staring at Mikhal, studying him.
Cairn nodded, agreeing with Hin’cabo.
“What did he say?” Kristian asked.
“He commented on how Mikhal looks like one of his own people. There is a resemblance,” Cairn admitted.
Kristian gave him another puzzled look but then turned to face Mikhal. He had not thought of it earlier, the similarities were obvious now. Most Erandians were broad shouldered with thick chests and arms. They were stocky people, not short by any means; Erandians had strong backs and arms. Centuries of farming on the central plains of Erinia had conditioned them to hard work.
Mikhal had strength but in a different way. His frame was taller and slightly thinner, his muscles were leaner, more defined. His hair was dark blonde, not quite the same as Hin’cabo’s, the color of gold metal, but close. Kristian also remembered the casual, confident way that Mikhal always stood, even when no one was paying attention to him. Hin’cabo’s stance echoed that. Kristian had to nod in agreement; Mikhal looked and acted more like an Atlunam than he did an Erandian.
After a brief rest, they departed down another tunnel, heading south, as far as Kristian could tell. It was hard to keep any sense of direction in the dark, winding tunnels. This tunnel, however, was much more comfortable to walk in. Timbers shored up the walls, and the ceiling was high enough that none of them had to duck.
In time, they came to another chamber. It was much larger and lined with cut rock. Lit torches lined the far walls revealing three doorways for the group to choose from. Cairn came forward and told him that they were at a ‘quaotop ghai’, a meeting place for the scouts.
“The Atlunam hunters meet here with other patrols to share information about their enemy, the Holtsmen.” Cairn pointed to the tunnel on their left and said, “That path leads deep into the forest. Eventually, it stops at a road that leads to the capital, Jai-Quinn. The second tunnel leads to another village, Ni’imsuko Jurai, which is further to the south. The tunnel on the right is the one we will take. It leads to Shuru Kaithep.”
“You know a quite a lot about these people and their land, Cairn,” Kristian claimed.
Cairn shrugged indifferently. “I have known these people for some time. I’ve never been to the capital, but I’ve been told it is one of the most impressive places in the world. To my understanding, no one from outside the forest has ever seen it. It’s a great honor for you to even be taken to one of their villages. It is their home and considered a sacred place to them.”
“If they are showing any respect to us then it is only because of you, Cairn. We would have been killed by the Belarnians, back on the rocks, if you hadn’t spoken on our behalf,” Kristian reminded him.
“Perhaps, but it isn’t just because of me that they’ve decided to help you. I think they’re curious about you. They know who Ferral is and wonder why the Belarnian king hunts three fugitives with an entire army.”
Kristian leaned closer to whisper. “What do you think they will do with us?”
Cairn shrugged. “They’ll probably take you to their council. They’ll want to hear everything you have to say about the Belarnians, and I’ll have to act as a translator. I’m sure this is the first time they’ve ever allowed outsiders into their village.”
“What about you? Haven’t you been in the village before?” Kristian asked.
Cairn remained silent for a moment and then shook his head.
“I was allowed into the forest a long time ago but taken to only one place.” He nodded in the direction of Hin’cabo and his men. “They were just as surprised to hear me speak their language as you were.”
“Why were you with them?” Kristian pressed.
“I needed some training that only they could help me with.” Cairn turned away, obviously not wanting to discuss it further. “It was a long time ago.”
Kristian tried to change the subject, “I never told you the truth about who we were and what happened to us. I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to tell you more.” Kristian hesitated, unsure if Cairn even cared. It was difficult for Kristian to figure him out.
“I’m Kristian, heir to the throne of Erand … what’s left of it any way,” he said. “Mikhal swore an oath to protect me, but his entire unit was wiped out by Ferral’s dark magic. Thousands of men were killed, and the sorcerer won’t stop until he finds me.”
Cairn nodded. “I thought you were someone more important than just a soldier … or merchant,” Kristian smiled, remembering the lame story they had given the swordsman.
“I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into,” Kristian replied.
“It’s just as good. I was running out of scores to settle.” Cairn surveyed the chamber again and then called out something to the Chief Hunter in a tone that sounded like a question. After a pause, Hin’cabo inclined his head in approval. Cairn then turned back to Kristian to explain. “I’ve asked that we stay here to rest for a little longer. The sun has already fallen; it would not be appropriate to enter their village at night, so it is better to wait until tomorrow morning. Hin’cabo’s men will keep watch over us.”
Cairn pointed to a dark corner to their left where steps led up to a cistern. A wooden and brass handle protruded from the wall beside the small pool. “Move the handle up and down a few times to start the water moving. It will take a while for the water to come out.”
Cairn smiled, seeing the puzzled look on Kristian’s face. “Don’t ask me how it works. The Atlunam have discovered many wondrous inventions. They’re an amazing people, intelligent and solemn.”
Kristian thanked him and moved over to talk with Mikhal and Maurin.
“What do you think of these people, Mikhal?” Kristian asked.
Mikhal frowned, not wanting to talk. Finally, Mikhal said, “I don’t think I’d want to get into a fight with them. They are definitely skilled fighters … and disciplined.”
“Who is your friend?” Maurin asked. “He’s kind of quiet.”
Kristian and Mikhal looked at Cairn. The swordsman sat in a corner away from everyone else, running his fingers lightly over the scars on his face. The three red lines started near his temple and ran down his cheek. Whatever had happened to Cairn had permanently affected him.
“We don’t know much about him,” Mikhal answered. “He was the first person to help us after the battle. He’s the one that suggested we seek out the Atlunam.”
“He seems to know a lot about them,” Maurin conceded.
“I wonder why,” Kristian thought out loud.
Mikhal shrugged. “It’s none of our business. If he wanted us to know, he would have told us.”
Kristian almost snapped back at Mikhal. The cavalier’s attitude toward him had not improved any since the battle, but Kristian expected that; the young king deserved it. But now, Mikhal was starting to treat others in the same manner. Whatever had happened when Mikhal passed out on the plains continued to haunt the cavalier.
“I think I heard about a man stumbling through our village many years ago. I was out and didn’t see him, but Eroly said the man’s face was a bloody ruin,” Maurin continued, ignoring the dirty looks the Erandians gave each other. “He was delirious, weak, and starving. He refused everyone’s offer for help and only demanded one thing.”
“What did he want?” Kristian asked, pulling his attention away from Mikhal.
“He wanted to know the fastest way to the Atlunam,” Maurin said. “Could it have been your friend … the swordsman?”
Mikhal’s disgusted smirk put Kristian on edge, again. Kristian feared another rude comment directed toward Maurin. The young king changed subjects, hoping to keep Mikhal quiet. “Maurin, you’ve mentioned that you like poetry. Have you written any of your own?”
Maurin shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve made up a few poems, but they aren’t any good.”
“I’d like to hear one anyway, if you don’t mind. It would be nice to think of something different for a while,” Kristian encouraged, glancing at Mikhal.
“You can’t order him around like a servant, Kristian. Just because he volunteered to follow you doesn’t mean he’s here for your entertainment,” Mikhal snapped at his king.
Kristian gave him a hurt and angry stare but kept his mouth shut.
Maurin looked away for a moment, but then the healer cleared his throat.
“Seas of golden grass and gleaming blue streams,
I look up to see falcons gliding by.
Majestic mountains and dark green forests fill my dreams.
I want to leave this gray life and join them in the sky.”
An awkward silence pervaded the space between the three of them.
“I told you I wasn’t any good at it. I just like to read … I like what words can do to lift someone’s spirit,” Maurin said, looking at Mikhal for a moment.
“Well,” Kristian started.
“It was good,” Mikhal said, interrupting.
Then Mikhal turned to Kristian. “Sometimes I say things,” he hesitated a moment, not sure what he wanted to say or how to say it. “I didn’t mean what I said.” Then Mikhal stood abruptly and walked over to a darker corner by himself.
Kristian looked away from his countryman. He did not want to make matters worse between them by telling Mikhal that his words were like poisoned daggers or that he was trying to make amends for the decisions that had caused the deaths of so many. Kristian sighed, accepting Mikhal’s small apology, wondering how much longer the cavalier could hold back his emotions—before he finally erupted.
Something has changed within Mikhal, Kristian thought. The battle, the loss of his friends and fellow soldiers, the fear of death, his duty to protect me, his desire for revenge. Kristian did not know which one of those things haunted Mikhal the most, or if it was all of them combined. He wondered if his companion was visited by the same accusing spirits that haunted him, or if something completely different hid within Mikhal, ready to remind the cavalier of the past as soon as he fell asleep.
Kristian shook his head. Mikhal was the one person that the young king had to prove himself to. The cavalier represented the model of discipline and leadership that Kristian had pretended to understand but had never really attained. Despite Kristian’s recent efforts, it seemed as if Mikhal drifted farther from Kristian rather than closer. It occurred to the young king that he might never gain Mikhal’s trust or respect.
The snow fell, a silent cascade hiding everything from Garin’s sight like a veil. There was, thankfully, no wind to increase his misery, but things were bad enough already. For over a week, the Erandian cavalier had evaded Belarnian patrols as he moved east. On more than one occasion, he narrowly escaped being captured. Only by staying far away from the roads that the conquering army used to move supplies back and forth between Belarn and Erand had the cavalier stayed alive. The cavalier was forced to hide from those that hunted down his fellow countrymen. It also added considerable time to his journey.
Even Kristian and Mikhal would have a hard time recognizing him now. Garin’s skin was dry and cracked where it had been exposed to the harsh weather. He limped from the pain associated with the frostbite in his toes. Garin carried a small pack and a staff, the latter he used to check the depth of snowdrifts and to help give his weakened body support. Had the cavalier been able to find more villagers to provide him with shelter, his infiltration past the Belarnian front lines, and arrival in Erand, might have gone better.
As it was, Garin had only found two settlements where the inhabitants had not been killed or forced to abandon their homes. He had to sneak into those few places at night and cautiously ask for shelter. When they
let him in, Garin saw the appalling level of life his countrymen had quickly been reduced to. All of them had stories to tell of the abuses they had seen or suffered. It made Garin’s heart break each time he heard them.
Both nights the survivors took him in, he told them the story of what had happened at the Battle of Belarna. The cavalier related the bravery of the Duellrian army, of King Justan seeking to rescue his sister. He told them of the personal sacrifices of the cavaliers that stood defiantly on the hill overlooking the black city, cursing Ferral and his dark magic. Those that listened to Garin bent their heads even further, their despair deepening. Then Garin would pull out the torn Erandian and Belarnian flags that he carried. He showed them to give his countrymen hope.
“Prince Kristian is alive. He grieves over what happened to his country, he especially grieves over the loss of his father. Your suffering is constantly on his mind, and he wishes to return to help you, but Kristian also knows that he could do little to aid you. The entire Belarnian army searches for him. I’ll wager that Kristian has eluded them all, and that Ferral is furious because his inept army can’t find him. Kristian is determined to end this invasion by destroying Ferral himself. Even now, he and Mikhal Jurander are raising an army to march against the sorcerer again.”
“Why are you here then?” the ragged survivors would always ask. Garin would smile a little, straightening.
“To give you hope. I will continue on into the heart of our country and let all those I meet know that we still have a chance to survive; all is not lost. I will find the scattered remains of the Erandian army, and we will drive these murderers from our country.”
Not all of them believed him. Some would continue to bow their heads refusing to hope. Little food remained for any of them. The winter storms had come so fast that nothing could be done to harvest crops or stock up on goods. The people that had lost hope complained to him of their condition.
“The prince is a selfish boy that can eat and drink what he likes while he sets out on his noble quest. Meanwhile, we’re starving waiting for someone to save us. We’ve all heard stories about Kristian … if he’s all we’ve got left, then there’s no hope left at all.”
Garin would shake his head emphatically. “He has suffered as much as you. He has lost his father. His betrothed is the prisoner of the most evil man to ever live. His entire army was slaughtered by Ferral’s deceit. And he walks the countryside as I do, with few possessions and even less to eat or drink. Much has been said about how Kristian the Prince was never the man that his father was, but I tell you Kristian the King is a different man. These tragic events have transformed him into the man our kingdom needs. Kristian has vowed to help us. And I believe he will.”
Garin would eventually stand and thank the few that listened or gave him shelter and food. They gave him what they could spare, extra food, water, and warmer clothes. It wasn’t much. Garin reluctantly took the supplies, thanking them on behalf of the cavaliers and their king. Before he would pass through the door and out into the frigid weather, he would always say, “Do not lose hope. Fight the best way you can … by preparing yourselves. Tell all Erandians you see what I have told you.”
Most people’s moods brightened a little at those parting words. They smiled at him promising to retell his story to others so that the deeds of those that died at the Battle of Belarna would never be forgotten.
The last village Garin visited had told him a story about Erandian soldiers hiding close to the Forsian Sea. They were supposedly ambushing supply trains, moving along the roads leading to the Belarnian encampments. Constantly moving to avoid detection, they would be difficult, if not impossible to find, but Garin had to try. Those fighting for survival had to know that there was something worth fighting for. He stopped and looked out over the snow-covered plains of southern Erand. This land used to be so beautiful, Garin thought.
Now it’s a desolate wasteland.
Garin estimated the sea was less than a day’s walk to the northwest. He could see nothing around him that his countrymen might use to hide their camp, though. There was a small fort another day’s journey northeast, but he doubted anyone would still be there. It would have been the first place attacked by the Belarnians.
Garin continued walking. At one point, the cavalier tripped in the deep snow. Rolling down a large snow bank, he cursed in frustration. Garin was starting to lose hope; everywhere he went he saw death and destruction. The cavalier had seen entire villages wiped out; many of the people strung up from porches or impaled along the side of the road. These people had done nothing wrong and only wanted to live in peace. He asked himself what they had done to deserve any of this. Garin was not sure how much more he could take.
As Garin tried to pull himself out of the snow, he noticed motion in front of him. He froze, hoping they could not see him in the storm. The motion soon turned into twenty riders which approached and surrounded Garin.
With little choice, Garin crawled out of the drift and rose to meet them. If they turned out to be Belarnians, his only chance of escape was to convince them that he was just a wanderer. He had little hope they would believe that, especially since he carried two army standards, but Garin could think of no other story.
The men eventually came within shouting distance and stopped. Their cloaks were wrapped closely around them, hoods hid their faces. Garin could see that they held swords and spears in their hands, ready for action.
One of them stepped forward. “We’ve heard that a Royal Cavalier is seeking those that fight the Belarnians.”
“I have not heard this news.” Garin had no intention of revealing anything until he figured out who these men were.
“Perhaps we are the men being sought.” The man pulled back his hood. He was big, likely from the southern farmlands of Erand. “You’re not a Belarnian. So, if you’re the cavalier seeking those that oppose the dogs ravishing our country—you have found them.”