Prelude (The Songs of Aarda Book 1)

by K Schultz

  “Dunno.”

  “That’s what I like most about you, your garrulous conversation. What about these knives?” Rehaak offered one to her, but she recoiled as if it carried plague. “Are they the same as the knives carried by the brigands who attacked us on the road when we first met?”

  Isil inspected the knife without touching it before she replied, “Yup.” Her brow furrowed, but she remained silent.

  “Can you answer questions in words of more than one syllable?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well?”

  Isil frowned and scratched her head but said nothing. Rehaak shrugged, rewrapped the blades, and slid them into the small hiding place he had discovered built into the side of the fireplace. The niche covered with a loose stone was a safe place to store the knives and keep them dry and safe from rust. He was not sure why he kept them, since, in Isil’s words, they gave him “the shivers” every time he handled them.

  “Not Raamya,” Isil replied, once Rehaak returned to his seat. “This feels o’ somethin’ more serious. The wolves helpin’ you, and all the rest tells me the attacks be more’n a squabble over land. Besides, where would Raamya find anyone with eyes like them fellas had?”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Rehaak asked.

  “Le’me ponder it a stretch.”

  Rehaak had learned it was pointless to ask questions once Isil stopped talking. It felt good to have her company again since he feared another attack. He insisted she use his new bed while he unrolled his old bedroll in front of the hearth. Without further conversation, they drifted off to sleep.

  .

  Beautiful sunshine flooded the dell in the morning, but Rehaak, still convinced that Raamya had hired assassins to kill him and take the cabin, fussed and fretted under a dark cloud while he cooked breakfast.

  After pondering the problem overnight, Isil said, “The whole town knows you claimed the house, so Raamya won’t interfere ‘cause the townsfolk won’t tolerate it. Folks ignores the nasty comments or minor hassles he and his boys cause, but they won’t put up with attempted murder or murder for hire.

  “I supported your claim to the house with the town council. Also, the king granted me a monopoly on freight transportation to New Hope, and Raamya won’t risk angerin’ me ‘cause I can stop bringin’ supplies for him each month, or I can refuse to haul his lumber and logs to the city. That would ruin his business. The cabin ain’t worth the risk or the cost.”

  “But how can we be sure he’s not involved?” Rehaak asked.

  “Remember the feelin’ you had before we was attacked on the trail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it the same as this time?”

  “Yes, only much stronger.”

  “Well, that happened long before Raamya even knew you. It seems to me that those guys with the fancy pig stickers was after you, not me, even back then. Raamya has no grudge against me, then or now. You was the only one there both times. All that talk about robbery were just nonsense to distract us. If they killed you and I survived, I would’a told everybody it were just a bandit attack. Trust me, it’s somethin’ else that’s got someone riled.”

  “Oh,” Rehaak said. He could no longer argue the point. Her logic was sound, and he grimaced at the irony. Rehaak had imagined he was her stalwart protector, and the idea she had been his bodyguard deflated his ego.

  Isil smirked at him and said, “Can you reply in words of more than one syllable?”

  Rehaak scowled at her when she used his own words against him.

  They broke their fast with porridge and fresh berries while they exchanged village gossip and news from Narragan. When they finished, they hitched the mithun to the wagon.

  Isil’s final words to him were, “Methinks you should be lookin’ for the Creator’s hand in this mess. If He be in it, He’ll be findin’ a way out for you too. By the way, I buried them other pig stickers in a safe place if you wants to start a collection.”

  “No thank you, I have enough.”

  Isil had told the townsfolk of the attempt on Rehaak’s life by assassins and asked them to beware of dangerous newcomers. Although life returned to normal outwardly, Rehaak reduced the frequency of his visits to New Hope. Despite the logic of Isil’s assurances, he still suspected that Raamya planned the attack. Fear gave him a heightened sense of the hostility between factions in New Hope.

  The people formed their own ideas of who was responsible and took sides, but Rehaak did not want to become the reason for contention between the villagers, so he stayed away from town as much as possible.

  Despite the undercurrent of politics and this unknown new threat, his life ran smoothly. His excellent memory and years of research in the Scriptorium had prepared him well for life as a small-town sage and healer. Over time, people’s attitudes toward him changed. Townsfolk met the stares and jibes of his detractors with rebuke rather than tolerance. Raamya and his sons, although reluctant to embrace him, softened their treatment of him. The days passed without further incidents.

  The fear that followed the attack faded but never disappeared. Rehaak still feared the shadows, while at night, glowing green eyes glimmered outside his house.

  Showdown

  Aelfric had left early to trade in Dun Dale. Alone with his thoughts, Laakea lit the forge and threw a lump of iron into the coals. Laakea had known peace while the tonic worked and his mother recovered, but it disappeared like fog in the noonday sun when she died. Laakea missed the sound of her voice and the warmth of her motherly hugs.

  Her absence left an aching hole in his chest where his heart had been. Inside the house, random noises made him look around and strain to hear her voice. Sometimes he would stand with her old clothes, held tight to his nose, just to remember her smell.

  The weather had turned sour, and Aelfric’s moods matched the weather. On bad days Laakea received a tongue-lashing fit to blister the daub off their house’s walls. On awful days Aelfric beat him with a belt, which added to the bruises of their combat drills. Both had become outlets for Aelfric’s anger, a way to punish Laakea for his mother’s death.

  Laakea took the red-hot metal from the forge and pounded it as a substitute for his father’s face. “I hate the way he treats me.” Bang! “Some days I wish I was dead.” Bang! “And other days I imagine killing him while he sleeps.” Bang! “I could have the place to myself if he were dead. Anywhere would be better than this.” Bang! “But I have nowhere to run, no friends to help me.”

  The tempo of Laakea’s hammer picked up speed. Despite the chill outside, the forge house seemed hot, and sweat dribbled down his back, wetting his shirt and the top of his trousers. Laakea continued until his arm became too heavy to lift. The metal took on a new shape under the barrage of hammer blows, and Laakea’s anger found a new form too.

  “I’ve had enough. I won’t take the beatings and verbal abuse anymore. Tonight, when Pa returns, I will stand up for myself.” Laakea threw the metal on the dirt floor, where it hissed and smoked. “Time to pen the sheep. No need to catch hell over sheep. Pa will be home soon.” Laakea grabbed his overcoat and threw it on over his wet shirt, then tied his cloak on over the coat. Sweat rose in a steaming cloud off his head as he headed to the pasture.

  Tonight, the sheep were obstinate and refused to follow him into the sheepfold. He tried chasing them into the enclosure, but they scattered in different directions. As a last resort, he grabbed them by their wooly necks and dragged them into the pen two by two. It was pitch dark before he got all six of them penned and secured the gate. He stomped to the house and kicked the door open. A shadowed form sat at the table. The smell of ale permeated the darkened great room.

  “Where have you been, boy, and why isn’t the fire lit?” Aelfric said.

  “I had trouble with the sheep.” Laakea flinched at the tone of Aelfric’s voice and stood just inside the door.

  “Is it too damned much to ask for a fire and a hot meal when I return home from the market?”

 
Laakea clenched his fists. “The market smells a whole lot like the tavern to me.”

  “Is that the way you honor your father, you young whelp? I will beat respect into you, even if it kills you. You’ll watch your words and your tone with me. Men have required Blood Debts for far less contempt than you’ve given me tonight. She almost died birthing you, and she never regained her full strength. Then you fell asleep while you were supposed to guard her. Your birth and your failure cost your mother’s health and life, boy. You aren’t worth her sacrifice.”

  “What about your failure? You didn’t awaken when the shadow took her life, and you lay right beside her snoring while it happened. If you hadn’t run away from Baradon, she would have gotten the help she needed. Why are you ashamed to tell me why you ran?”

  “You know nothing.”

  “You are right. I know nothing, and that’s your fault, since you won’t tell me anything.”

  “I wish you were never born, so I wouldn’t see your face. It reminds me of your mother.” Aelfric had refused to speak Shelhera’s name since her death.

  Laakea’s temper burned hot. “I hate you. You’re a nasty, vindictive old man, and I curse the day you fathered me. May the gods drag you from one hell to another for all eternity.”

  Aelfric leaped from his seat, staggered forward, and picked up a piece of firewood like a club. “That’s enough. You’ll pay for your words.”

  Aelfric swung the wood at his son’s head. Laakea ducked and rolled sideways, ending up on his back, but Aelfric pursued him. Laakea scuttled backward, fear mixing with determination to survive, and kicked Aelfric’s bad knee. When his father went down screaming in pain, Laakea scrambled to his feet and fled into the night. He rushed into the dark forest, leaving everything behind. Now, forced to face the world alone, dishonored, and unloved. Laakea could never go home.

  At least he could never go home and survive unless he bested his father in single combat. If Laakea defeated Aelfric, it would be a sign the gods judged Laakea favorably and were on his side, but Laakea knew he was guilty, regardless of whether his father was equally guilty. In anger, he had insulted and cursed his father, and because of that, the gods would never rule in his favor.

  Flight

  On this, the third night since his escape from his mountain valley home, panic filled Laakea’s mind, but nothing filled the ache of his empty stomach. He had walked day and night with short naps and an occasional stop to drink from puddles and hollow tree stumps. It was a hell of a night, freezing, far from shelter, stumbling through the darkness, lost and alone. He looked at the sky.

  At least it’s not raining.

  The jagged night wind pierced Laakea’s clothes. It slashed at his face and ears, while his heart struggled and failed to pump warmth to his extremities. Laakea shivered, pulled his mantle tighter, and tucked numb fingers inside his cloak to warm them.

  The moon’s soft white light gave no heat. Its pale, cold glow painted everything in shades of gray and silver, ghostly and colorless in the darkness. The wind howled through the trees like a lost soul, drowning out the noise of his footfalls and his shuddering breaths as he stumbled through the forest. He glanced up at the trees silhouetted along the ridge to keep his bearings. Laakea found it easy enough to lose his way in daylight, but the darkness disoriented him.

  Dun Dale’s Elders had banned him from the village, and he had lost the game trail he followed early last evening when he tried to skirt the settlement. Now he thrashed through undergrowth that hindered every step and sapped his strength.

  Laakea reserved as much energy as possible for survival. Regret would have to wait for better days. He should have passed by the town of New Hope yesterday. His stomach screamed and demanded food. Although bouts of shivering from the damp autumnal air had subsided, hunger, exertion, and frigid temperatures numbed both mind and body. Laakea desperately needed rest. Fatigue tugged at his tired limbs, and the temptation to yield to sleep invaded his mind. Stop fighting. You are too tired and weak to continue tonight. Rest now. Things will improve tomorrow if you sleep.

  A powerful voice echoed in his head and banished those seductive thoughts. Remember the days filled with love, days of warmth, and sunshine. Although you do not know it, you stumble toward your destiny.

  The voice’s bright melodic power pulled Laakea forward and triggered memories of his mother. The warm glow of those memories kept him from yielding to the woodland’s icy embrace.

  The forest blurred, and he saw a vision of his mother looking up from weeding summer vegetables. She sang to him, and the golden power in the song gave him strength. A new image appeared. She bent low over his bed, tucked the blankets around him, and sang away the darkness.

  The mirage faded.

  In the forge’s warmth, Laakea stood working side by side with his father. His mother’s voice called them to dinner at the kitchen table, where they laughed, joked, and sang together.

  Laakea tripped over a root, landing flat on the hard ground, and it jarred him out of his reverie. He struggled to his feet and brushed away the detritus and leaf mold, his clothing damp and dirty. Each step became a battle, every obstacle in his path an ominous challenge. The forest closed in around him. Wet branches slapped and stung his cold skin like the lash of a whip, and tangled roots snared his feet.

  It must be near freezing. Can’t get much worse than this.

  He carried on, stumbling from tree to tree on his endless walk. Although Laakea hoped for dawn, the night grew even darker when the moonlight dimmed, and darkness enveloped him. He thought his eyesight had failed from fatigue and hypothermia, but when he looked skyward, clouds had blotted out the moon and most of the stars. Rain fell in tiny icy droplets and shrouded the forest in a cold mist.

  Laakea pulled his slouch hat over his ears, wrapped his cloak closer to his body, and struggled onward. Although the rain was light, it seeped through his garments and the soles of his boots. It gave the chill wind sharp teeth, which gnawed through his clothes.

  Laakea’s mind wandered as it often did when he was alone. Solitude was nothing new for the boy, and he couldn’t help thinking of how he’d never truly fit in anywhere throughout his short life. Laakea pictured his parents standing head and shoulders taller than their Abrhaani neighbors. His own blond hair and blue eyes set him apart from the emerald-eyed, dark-haired, green-skinned children around him. Though he was thirteen summers, he towered above youngsters his own age, and he was a hands-breadth taller than the village’s adult men. He had never belonged or been accepted. The Abrhaani children kept their distance from Laakea, although he never understood why, and the lack of playmates troubled him. The adults avoided his father, too, unless they needed tools repaired or forged.

  Aelfric and Shelhera were his only companions. And now he had neither of them.

  In the distance to Laakea’s left, a wolf howled. The noise ended his contemplation and focused him on his predicament.

  I was wrong. It can get worse, and it just did.

  Numb as his legs were, he forced them to move faster.

  Laakea had planned to head to New Hope, but in the dark, he’d wandered off the narrow game trail while skirting Dun Dale. This is all Radik and Ogun’s fault. If I could have gone to Dun Dale, I would not be lost right now.

  The wolf howled again, but from behind him this time and an answering howl came from his left. They’ve got my scent now, and they’re tracking me. Laakea angled off to his right and tried to put distance between himself and the predators.

  Nightmares

  Spring and summer had flown past, while Rehaak repaired the cabin, planted vegetables, and harvested the food he had grown. No enemies had breached his sheltered green haven. Life was delightful, except for the dreams that now haunted his sleep. His frequent nightmares were variations on a theme.

  Tonight in his dream, Rehaak walked naked on unfamiliar streets. The boulevard had a gray quality as if perpetual twilight shrouded this place, but it was twilight without sundo
wn. There were no splashes of color, no golden orb to slide below the horizon, no blaze of red or yellow on the clouds.

  Rehaak stood on the gray street in the shadowless diffuse light, terrified, aware the doors of the houses could open; someone could walk out and see him naked. There was scant cover anywhere. While he dithered on a direction to flee, the inevitable happened. Doors opened, and people as colorless as their faded clothes streamed into the street.

  In a panic, Rehaak hunched over and covered himself with his hands, a pathetic picture of shame and fear as he scrambled from one shrub to the next. People wandered everywhere. Each time he found concealment, someone walked out a new door, or someone moved, which allowed them to see him. In Rehaak’s frenzy to hide, he didn’t realize no one noticed him. Humiliation and fear of exposure drove him onward, while the faded people lived their leaden lives in their washed-out world.

  The fact that they either didn’t see him, or didn’t care he was naked, gave him no comfort. Any moment someone might notice his nakedness and alert the faded masses to his presence and his lack of clothing. He snuck forward, crouching in the gray-green grass or sprinting from one inadequate hiding place to the next. His obscenely exposed private parts flapped with every step.

  Before long, he neared the outskirts of town on the edge of a washed-out forest. Rehaak dashed for the cover of the woods in a wild rush and hoped to at least limit the duration of exposure. Desperate, he streaked toward the dark wall of trees. No one noticed.

  The forest, although darker than the town, afforded him less cover than ever. Nothing grew under the canopy of the widely spaced trees. The branches were too high to reach and offered no chance of concealment in the foliage. Compounding the problem, people wandered among the trees in numbers plentiful enough to see him, and he scrambled from one hiding place to the next.

  In the center of the forest, a vast storehouse built of gray limestone offered the cover he craved. The inside of the storehouse was even darker than the woods, but once inside, he found the strange and hostile darkness hid nothing.