Raedalus watched as the man died. As a Pashist priest, he had sworn vows to cherish and protect all life as sacred. He abstained from the meat of animals except when necessary and even said prayers when unable to avoid killing insects. He shunned violence in all forms at all times. And now he had killed a man. He thought he should feel something tragic, a great remorse. He looked from the dead militiaman and into the lifeless eyes of the woman in the bloody grass. Raedalus did not experience remorse. Nor shame. Nor anger. Nor even satisfaction.
He felt fear.
Fear that if pious rage turned to violence could so swiftly snuff out a life, at a future time, the taking of lives might prove all too easy and acceptable. What would this mean? What might this change in him?
He shook these thoughts and concerns from his head and returned his eyes to scanning the campsite for signs of Junari. If they had killed her, what then? How could the pilgrims fulfill the promise of the new goddess’s dream?
White flashed between running pilgrims and the flickering reflection of steel blades. Junari’s nightclothes. Raedalus ran toward the Mother Shepherd, dodging pilgrims, exhorting them to flee to the forest and hide, and knocking aside the sword thrust of a passing militiaman. Junari also ran. Her bare feet pounded across the matted meadow toward a clump of ten pilgrims huddled together as four militiamen taunted them, poking them with the tips of their swords.
“Squeal, heathen!” a militiaman shouted.
“Cry for yer false god to protect ya!” another yelled.
“Stop!”
Junari’s voice carried above the cacophony of the campsite, drawing the militiamen’s eyes to her as she slid to a halt in the blood-slicked grass. She stood between the pilgrims and militiamen, her arms outstretched in petition.
Raedalus yelled out, meaning to call attention away from his mistress, to launch himself in attack at the men she confronted. One of his feet caught in the crook of the arm of a fallen and motionless pilgrim, sending him sprawling to the ground, the hilt of his sword jamming into his gut, the air rushing from his lungs. He looked up, trying to catch his wind and pull himself to his feet, watching as Junari faced the militiamen, open handed and defenseless.
“We mean no harm,” Junari shouted in broken Shen at the blood-splattered men. “We are pilgrims. We walk in peace.”
“That’s her,” one of the men sneered. “That’s the filthy bitch herself.”
“Kill her and the vermin’ll stop comin’ to our lands,” another man said as he raised his sword above his head.
Raedalus called out as he struggled to stand. His arms moved like damp cloths as he hefted the sword to his shoulder. He stared as Junari, arms still outstretched, watched the sword blade swinging toward her head. He heard her speak, her voice ringing clear, seeming to whisper in his ear even as it boomed above the chaotic din around them.
“Protect us, Goddess Moaratana!”
Blue-white brilliance filled the night, searing the eyes of all around as the air exploded and the earth trembled. Lightning flowed from the clouded night sky — a rivulet of liquid light reaching down to strike the sword of the militiaman in mid-swing, sending him hurtling backward, where he collided with one of his companions.
Raedalus had no time to wonder at Junari’s naming of the previously nameless goddess, nor the import of the translation from the ancient Mumtiba language giving her name the meaning of Dragon Star — these things came to him later — he could only stare in wonder as Junari shouted again.
“Protect us, Goddess Moaratana!”
Brilliant, jagged strings of light descended in an instant to strike at the swords in the hands of the militiamen attacking the pilgrims throughout the campsite. The men screamed and smoked and crumpled to the ground as they died.
Raedalus stood, dizzy from the lightning, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, gaping in amazement at Junari. She lowered her arms and apprised the dead men spread around her, shaking her head, whether in anger or sorrow, Raedalus could not tell.
“A miracle,” a woman in the group of pilgrims behind Junari said aloud. “A miracle of the Goddess.”
Junari turned to the pilgrims, a weary yet compassionate smile across her lips.
“Yes. A miracle.”
“You called down lightning,” one of the men said.
“No, I called on the Goddess,” Junari corrected the man. “As we all must call on her now.” She turned around and raised her voice again, shouting to the entire camp. “Help our people. Tend to the wounded. We must bury our dead. We leave at sunrise.”
The pilgrims dispersed under Junari’s patient gaze. When she seemed satisfied the pilgrims were in motion, she turned and walked to Raedalus.
“It is fortunate our goddess knows you from our enemies.” Junari glanced at the sword still in Raedalus’s hand.
“I…” Raedalus looked at the sword as well, amazed still by what he had done with it and by the fact that it had been the only blade untouched by the lightning.
“Keep it. Learn to use it. We will have need of it again, I fear.” Junari sighed as she surveyed the wreckage of lives scattered across the once peaceful camp.
“Yes, Mother Shepherd.” He nodded his head and gripped the sword tighter.
Raedalus followed her eyes and looked over the dead and wounded. So much change in such a short span of time. So much death. One life ended by his own hands.
“Come.” Junari started walking toward an injured woman still holding her young daughter. “We have much to do before dawn.”
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THE PHILOSOPHER
SKETKEE
THINK-LIDDED EYES like scale-clad obsidian orbs stared up at the glowing garnet star, the newly attending member of the celestial congregation it so brightly outshone. The eyes blinked. Squinted, vertical irises expanding. Blinked again.
Sketkee lowered her gaze, sweeping her sight across the slumbering forms before her. She stood at the edge of a pilgrim camp. Twenty-seven people slept in or under wagons, on soft spots of grass along the roadside, or dozed while leaning against tree trunks. She and her traveling companion had made their nest for the night far from the others. While they tolerated her presence, it did no good to provoke their irrational fear through increased proximity. Even though she walked at the back of the pilgrim line and normally concealed her features beneath the cowl of a hooded cloak, she overheard the whispered names. Reptile. Snake Demon. Lizard Woman. They acknowledged her as a fellow pilgrim, but this did not mean they accepted her as a rakthor — a creature of greater height, strength, and intelligence, cloaked in a skin that all too closely resembled the slithering creatures their limited minds so mindlessly feared. While everyone in the Iron Realm had heard stories of the lizard people of the Sun Realm, few had ever seen or spoken to one. Doing so, Sketkee had found, did little to assuage their instinctual suspicions.
So, she stayed out of sight, but close enough to be considered one of the pilgrim band. It helped having a human companion. Her escort, Kadmallin, possessed a pleasant nature that put the other pilgrims at ease and mitigated the concerns they felt at having a near-mythical rakthor among them. Sketkee surmised that the appearance of the new star, as though pulled from the collective dreams of an alternate nocturnal world, would also help ease their acceptance of her presence. If a star could appear from dreams, why could not a lizard-like rakthor step from bedtime stories meant to terrify children and onto the road beside them to follow that same star toward the Forbidden Realm?
Why not, indeed? However, a more recent and pressing question consumed Sketkee’s mind — how had she awoken from the very same dream to see the star it depicted? Rakthors did not dream. Images might arise during sleep, but not of any duration, and none that might be woven into the sleep-stories of human dreams. Moreover, and more importantly, rakthors did not believe in gods and goddesses and supernatural superstitio
ns. Rakthors, and Sketkee especially, followed the Principles of Mind — with beliefs based in experience and clear, logical thought. Gods were figments of human and other peoples’ imaginations, without possible proof of tangible existence. Or so she had always surmised.
What did it mean, not only that she might dream this pilgrim night-tale of a bright new star, but that she should do so on the very evening a new heavenly body, so much like the one of the dream, suddenly adorned the sky? Coincidence provided the best explanation — the most logical conclusion. But might not a verdict of coincidence be a way of avoiding an uncomfortable truth? The Principles of Mind dictated that evidence be gathered to support or disclaim a supposition. She could not yet make a valid conclusion based on the limited facts at her disposal. She would have to live with a determination of inconclusiveness until learning more.
Sketkee heard a sound from behind and turned to see Kadmallin walking up to join her. Nearly fifty years of age, he still stood tall, with the lean and muscular build of a man half his years. His right hand rested on the hilt of one the two swords that never left his belt nor his side. He took his responsibilities seriously, and his primary obligation entailed protecting Sketkee from danger. She had known him for twenty-four years and thirteen months as calculated by the Iron Realm calendar, and while many of his human charms entirely escaped her appreciation, she found his adherence to duty to be a refreshing aberration among his kind.
“New star,” Kadmallin said as he stepped up beside Sketkee.
“Yes.” She turned to look at the curious oddity of light once more, marveling as she always did at his need to state the obvious.
“What do you think it means?” Kadmallin rubbed his chin.
“I do not know.” Sketkee frowned at Kadmallin’s seemingly instinctive ability to ask the questions she preferred to ignore. She posed one of her own to her companion. “Do you still have the dream?”
“Yes.” Kadmallin looked down from the sky. “Every night.”
“What do you think it means, the dream and the new star?” Sketkee turned to Kadmallin. She stood a good head and a half taller than the man.
“It frightens me.” Kadmallin glanced up to Sketkee’s eyes and then to the camp of sleeping pilgrims.
Sketkee noted that, as usual, Kadmallin had replied to a request for thoughtful conjecture with an entirely useless emotive response. She decided then, while considering the star and the dreams, to finally confide in Kadmallin her reason for leaving her realm and hiring him to accompany her and join the pilgrim band. She had kept Kadmallin unaware of her true purpose, but she realized now, if something were to happen to her, it would be important for him to know their true goals, so he might either continue to attempt to accomplish them or find someone else qualified to do so.
Sketkee reached in the leather satchel she always wore and removed a sphere the size of a large fist wrapped in a simple black cloth. Kadmallin watched with open curiosity as she peeled away layers of woven cotton to reveal a perfectly round blue crystal that glittered in the moonlight. He leaned forward in silence, examining the glass globe more closely, his eyes going wide as he saw the movement within — a miniature night sky with thousands of gem-like gears undulating in a branching pattern of faintly glowing light.
“What is it?” Kadmallin reached out a tentative finger to momentarily touch the surface of the sphere.
“I suspect it is an ancient urris artifact. I believe it is a machine of some manner.” Sketkee wrapped the scraps of cloth around the crystal and slid it into her satchel.
“This is why we are following the pilgrims to the Forbidden Realm.” Kadmallin rubbed the stubble of his chin again.
“Yes.” Sketkee watched her companion, curious what his response might be. She wondered if she should have told him the true purpose for their travel sooner. She had intimated, although never outright lied, that she intended to follow the pilgrims so as to write a treatise on human religious migrations for her academy. She also debated whether to tell him how she came to possess the object. She should have known he would ask the question she did not wish to answer.
“Where did you get it?”
Sketkee hesitated.
“I stole it.”
“How did my life come to this?” Kadmallin sighed. “From commander of the palace targas in the Punderra capital to helping a rakthor thief follow a band of religious heretics across a land filled with bandits and militias in the hopes of crossing a hostile ocean to explore a realm from where no living soul has returned in thousands of years.” Kadmallin smiled suddenly. “At least the company is pleasant.”
Sketkee had not anticipated this response. A part of her found it unnerving that she should have so little success in predicting the behavior of her closest companion and oldest friend. The rest of her accepted his assessment and reiterated it.
“Yes,” Sketkee said, looking up to the strange new star once more. “The company is more than adequately pleasing.”
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THE FUGITIVES
SHA-KUTAN
THE BLADE dug into the soft meat of the pine table, vibrating as it stood alone, the tremors of its impact causing the flame of the lantern to flicker.
A soldier leaned against the table and spat his words at Sha-Kutan.
“Where are they?”
Sha-Kutan stared at the blade lodged in the table.
“I told you. Gone.”
The soldier snatched his dagger from the table. Two men behind him still held their swords drawn, wide, curved, double-edged blades glinting in the lantern light. Two more men outside the house did the same.
“Gone where?”
“Back along the path to the woods.” Sha-Kutan looked into the young soldier’s eyes. Even seated, his face sat nearly level with the man’s head.
Whatever happens, we should not stand.
No. If they are intimidated, they will be foolish.
This one may be foolish no matter what we do.
If we appear meek, that may make him more comfortable.
Sha-Kutan looked away from the commanding soldier, turning his eyes toward the book still in his hands.
“How long ago did they leave?” The soldier leaned farther over the table.
“Not long. A quarter candle. No more.” Sha-Kutan kept his eyes cast down, his nose wrinkling involuntarily at the soldier’s breath. It stank of stale wine and rotted meat. The man himself smelled of arrogance and anger and pride.
“Do you have a cellar?” The soldier looked around the small one-room farmhouse.
“In the barn.” Sha-Kutan gestured with his chin to indicate the location.
The soldier looked to his men outside the house.
“Take a dog and search the barn.”
One of the men pulled a still-whimpering dog away from the house. The other dog cowered behind the remaining soldier.
The dogs are always smarter than the men.
Unfortunately.
The soldier returned his concentration to Sha-Kutan.
“What did they tell you?”
“They said they were hungry. I gave them food. Then they left.”
The soldier walked around the table, standing behind Sha-Kutan, peering into the shadows of the house as though he might find his quarry lurking in a dark corner.
“Did they say where they were going?”
“No. They asked about nearby towns. There are none.” Sha-Kutan could sense the man behind him. Knew how far away he stood. Knew how long it would take to stand and grab him by the throat.
To control the mind is essential.
Yes.
They do not need to die. Everyone can live this night.
Yes. Life is sacred. To be preserved at all costs.
The Book of Light says, “All things are one thing living through each other. To kill another is to murder part of oneself.”
Do not rise.
No. To rise would lead to … unpleasantness.
“I asked you a question, you dimwitted dirt grubber.” The soldier spat his words in Sha-Kutan’s ear. “Did the woman tell you why we are chasing them?”
“Yes.” Sha-Kutan struggled to keep his voice acquiescent, straining to filter out the emotions desiring expression. “She said her dead husband’s father wished to kill her and the child. To maintain the purity of the family line.”
“She has no husband.” The soldier seemed to speak more to himself than anyone in the room, as though trying to tease out the truth of a mystery that eluded him. “And the girl is not hers.”
One of the soldiers outside appeared in the doorway, dragging a dog on a rope behind him. “Nothing in the barn, sir. Barely has a cellar. More like a hole in the ground.”
Sha-Kutan looked between the faces of the soldiers, his gaze coming to rest on their leader.
“Peasants.” The commanding soldier spat on the floor. “Drag those lazy mutts in here. Maybe they can get a better scent.”
If the dogs search the house, they will smell the woman and girl.
The dogs will not enter as long as we are present.
Their fear may provoke suspicion.
Sha-Kutan reached for the book as the soldier walked around the table, moving quickly to draw attention, fumbling to grasp at the pages, sending the book sliding across the soup-stained boards.
“What’s this?” The soldier snatched the book from the table and examined the title. Behind him, the dogs pulled at their ropes, tails tight under their bellies, refusing to enter the house. The soldier seemed to forget about the dogs as he poked the book with his finger.
The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1) Page 6