by John Migacz
CHAPTER 47
The Arvari hunter followed the blood trail as quickly as he could. It had been a long chase through the thick wood. The muntjac should have gone down with his first arrow, but it had turned at the last instant and the shaft only pierced its shoulder. Erondil silently cursed his luck. The woodland spirits must be angry with him for causing the stag so much pain. He prayed he could end this soon.
Coming to the edge of a large meadow, he spied the wounded animal on the other side. The muntjac glanced back in his direction and Erondil saw that it wasn’t tiring. If it got into the woods the chase could go on for many more hours. He stood rock still, hoping the beast hadn’t seen him, and gauged the distance. It was a long bow shot, but he would attempt it and hope to get lucky. He slowly reached for an arrow and the muntjac raised its head.
A black blur leaped from the woods, grabbed the animal by the antlers and twisted, wrestling it to the ground. The muntjac’s head was yanked again and an audible crack sounded across the meadow. Its hindquarters kicked twice, then stilled.
It happened so quickly it took Erondil a moment to realize that the figure was a man, all dressed in black with his cape’s hood over his head. The stranger held the muntjac by its antlers a moment longer, then lowered it to the ground. Throwing back his hood, the man stood with arms out, palms open toward Erondil. He glanced at the arrow wound in the beast and then to the Arvari.
“Come!” the stranger yelled in perfect Arvarian. “Make your apology to the muntjac for your bad shot before the spirits grow any angrier.” Stunned by the chase’s sudden end, and more so by a human using the Arvari tongue, Erondil raced across the meadow with the swift, graceful strides so distinctive of the woodland people. As he approached the stranger, he held out his hand, palm out, his three elongated fingers held wide apart.
“Thank you, stranger,” said Erondil, “for ending the beast’s suffering where I could not.”
The man bowed his head. They watched each other for a moment, each taking the other’s measure. Erondil had only seen humans from a distance and wondered if they were all like this stranger. He was torn between asking what the man wanted and making his oblations to the muntjac’s spirit.
Glancing down at the animal, he knew he was beholden to the stranger. Erondil dropped his bow, drew his knife and knelt by the muntjac. He removed the beast’s heart and offered it up to the spirits. In the old Arvarian tongue, he recited the prayer that told of his people’s need for food, and thanked the spirit of the muntjac for its sacrifice. He finished by biting off a piece of the heart and placing the rest in the animal’s mouth.
The ritual completed, he turned to the stranger. “It was your kill. Do you wish to claim the meat?”
“I wish to share this sacrifice with ‘the first men’ and to talk to the council. I will help you carry the carcass to your hearth.”
Erondil hesitated. Normally, he would lead the stranger to the tribe’s hearth, but these were dark times. The stranger noticed his hesitation.
“I mean the Arvari no harm. I wish to speak to the elders and cannot enter your hearth uninvited. You are a long way from your sacred groves. I do not ask to be taken there, only to your hunter’s hearth.”
At the mention of the sacred groves, pain filled Erondil’s heart. “The sacred groves – ” He choked, unable to say more. Erondil stared at the stranger and nodded. “You have my leave to enter our hearth. May you come in peace and leave enlightened. The blessings of the spirit will be upon our sharing.”
Traditional invitation given, the Arvari stood and extended both hands to the stranger, who clasped his, hands to wrist.
“My name is Erondil. My father is Erondal, son of Erondar, of the clan Eron,” said the Arvari, formally.
“I am called Dieya.”
Erondil stopped shaking Dieya’s wrists but didn’t release them. “Are you the ‘Laere-Tere’ the Arvari speak of? The one who was not born of woman?”
“The woodland folk have known me by that title, yes,” said Dieya.
“Ah!” said Erondil. “Then this will be a homecoming.” He gripped Dieya’s wrists harder before releasing them. “We have little enough to celebrate, and this will help raise the tribe’s spirits.”
“The path traveled by ‘the first men’ has darkened?” asked Dieya.
“That is not to be spoken of here. We will talk of our fates over the light of fire, and with the guidance of the elder, so no spirits will take offense,” said Erondil. “Come, let us take the muntjac to the hearth. After we eat, there will be plenty of time to talk.”
Dieya cut a carrying pole while Erondil dressed the kill. They slid the pole between the muntjac’s tied legs and raised it to their shoulders.
Erondil led as they walked silently through the woods to the Arvari camp.
Their arrival was unheralded. They passed several sentries, who nodded greetings to Erondil, but ignored Dieya. By custom, the Arvari would not acknowledge his coming until first greeted by the eldest member.
Dieya always liked visiting with the woodland folk. The Arvari, or “first men” in their language, were a willowy race whose every movement was an economy of grace and strength. He had never encountered a more handsome group of beings. Spending time with the Arvari was like a vacation. Their ability to live in the moment was cathartic for someone with a Dieya’s responsibilities.
Arriving at the center of camp, the Arvari loosely gathered around him. Dieya saw despair and turmoil in their usually stoic faces – and most of those in the camp were women and children. A gray-bearded Arvari limped to Erondil and held up his hand.
“Hail, Erondil. Your food is welcome as is your guest.” Squinting, he examined Dieya’s face. “Hail, guest. Forgive me if my old eyes fail me, but you resemble a man I knew once, long ago.
“Hail, Caranthir. Your eyes have not failed you,” said Dieya.
“Dieya!” said Caranthir, gripping Dieya’s arms. He studied the sorcerer’s face more closely. “You are indeed a wizard not to have aged since the last time we met.”
“It is a trick of time, nothing more, old friend. It is good to be with the Arvari again.”
“You do not herald evil times, Dieya, but you certainly follow them.” He turned to the gathering crowd and held up his hands to finish the Arvari rite of greeting.
“This is a guest, returning to the hearth. Let all regard him as Arvari!”
“Welcome, Arvari!” chorused the crowd. The group broke up to continue chores, but a few of the older Arvari came to shake hands with Dieya. While the women took the muntjac for preparation, Caranthir gripped Dieya’s arm for support and steered him toward his shelter.
“Your leg troubles you,” said Dieya as they sat in a lean-to made of crisscrossed pina branches. The floor was covered with an exquisitely detailed rug made from the inner fibers of kolanda trees.
“Yes, a wound taken a month ago has not healed. We have been moving much, and I haven’t given it time to mend as I should.”
“If I may?” asked Dieya.
Caranthir looked pleased. “If you have some wizardry to help, it would be greatly appreciated. There is much to do and this bad leg hinders my work with the tribe.”
Caranthir unwrapped his bandage and showed a severely burned lower right leg. “Our herbs help some, but this needs more than we have been able to give it.” He stared at his burn. “I have fears of losing the leg.”
Dieya examined the injury then opened a pouch and removed a small metal cylinder. “This will cause the wound to heal quickly.” He touched the top of the cylinder and it emitted a fine mist. He sprayed the entire wound then put the cylinder away. Removing a small silver box from his pouch, he held it in the palm of his hand. He touched the amulet on his forearm and a blue-green light shone from the box. Dieya slowly moved the silver box over the burned area.
“Ahh,” said Caranthir. “The pain has lessened greatly.�
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The light ceased and Dieya returned the silver box into his pouch. “In a few days it should be healed. But how did you receive such a wound? I know the Arvari to be most careful of fire.”
“Yes, fire is our bane. A burning tree fell on my leg while I fought the great fire.” His face became a mask of great sadness as he looked up at Dieya. “All is gone. The council center, the chief’s hearth and the sacred grove.”
Dieya stared at Caranthir. “Gone? All?” The news shook him. “How?”
“When the first winds of summer began blowing out of the east, the grasslands were intentionally fired all along the edges of our forest. In one night, a stretch of woods from the Gade River to Akland Point was set ablaze. When we had controlled the fire in one section and moved off to fight another, the blaze was re-ignited. Warriors were sent to guard the extinguished areas, but they were attacked and killed. None returned.” Caranthir shook his head. “The Arvari were never a numerous race and we just didn’t have enough men to put out the fires and fight the tree-burners. We had to flee.” He hung his head. “The sacred grove is ash.”
Dieya placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Who set the blaze? And why?”
A spark of anger flamed in the depths of the old Arvari’s eyes. “We never saw them!” He clenched a fist. “We found prints made by the grasslander’s ehtas. But we have always been at peace with the nomads, so we cannot be sure it was them.”
Caranthir’s anger ceased and his shoulders sagged. “The fires have died, as have most of our warriors. We never faced fire of this magnitude. Many men were lost fighting the blaze. There are only three other camps such as this, scattered among the western lowland forests. Much game died in the fire and our people lack food. The forest that once gave all, now gives hardship.”
Dieya sat back and considered this information. Arvari meant “first men” in their language and it was true. The DNA and magnetitron wave samples he had gathered proved the Arvari originally evolved on this planet. Humans came later, probably in the Gless “seeding.”
It was inconceivable that the Arvari, a people filled with grace and nobility should die out. He knew he must help.
“Caranthir, would you accept help from a friend of the woodland folk?”
The old Arvari smiled. “We are no longer proud, Dieya, as we once were. Perhaps all this is because we needed to be humbled, and learn again to live with the forest…” He looked at the ground. “Instead of feeling we were its lords.” He sighed and nodded his head. “Yes, we will accept help, and be very grateful.”
Dieya contemplated the problem for a moment, sorting through the difficulties and their solutions. “Where the human’s brick road turns west, there is a small village called Westerly. North of there about three miles is a hillock of honey trees –”
“Yes, we know this place,” nodded Caranthir.
“In two weeks time, there will be many wagons filled with supplies for the Arvari at that hillock. There will be enough food and clothing to last through the winter and tools to aid in building new homes. Gather your men to receive these supplies and distribute them to ‘the first men.’” Dieya placed a hand on Caranthir’s shoulder. “The forest renews. The sacred groves are gone, but they will grow again. Your homes have not been destroyed, they have just moved for a time. The Arvari will continue on Ravar and grow. This, I swear.”
The old man’s eyes filled with tears as he extended his hands. “The tribe will not forget. Ever!” The old man gripped Dieya’s hands hard. “Come!” he said with exuberance. “We must eat and tell the tribe of our good fortune and praise our benefactor.”
“No, Caranthir. Praise is not necessary. It is not only my duty, but my pleasure. I do have one favor to ask of you,” he said as he fumbled in his pouch.
The old man just smiled. “It is not a favor, but our duty. How can we help?”
Dieya removed the small brooch from his pouch and showed it to Caranthir. The old man took it, tilted it toward the light and read the inscription. “Isundir? Isundir was one of the warriors killed guarding the extinguished sections of the fire. We found his body but not his talisman. Where did you get this?” he asked.
“From the dead hand of a valiant human warrior who had ripped it from his assailant at Eastedge Stronghold, two hundred miles south, on the edge of the grassland.”
Caranthir straightened and his face became hard. “Then I must go to Eastedge Keep to inquire how it got there.”
“No,” said Dieya, sadness seeping through his voice. “Eastedge Stronghold is no longer. It has been destroyed.”
Caranthir slumped and slowly shook his head. “These are evil times, surely.” He eyed the brooch. “I should give this to Vorianda – she was Isundir’s mate.” He asked for permission with his eyes.
Dieya handed it to Caranthir. “It should be with the family.” He stood to leave. “I must go.”
“Laere-Tere, would you not stay and eat with us?” asked Caranthir, also rising.
“No, my friend, I cannot. There is much to be arranged. But you said there were footprints found near the missing warriors. Were there any other signs?”
The old man held up a finger, leaned down and picked up a rolled leather hide. “Just this,” he said. He unrolled the hide and an arrow dropped into his hand – an arrow that was bright red from notch to point.