144: Wrath (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Xandra watched him for a moment, soaking in the sadness he would never share.

The running drumbeat and the clatter of onun shells drew her attention back toward the Dorokti.

The Seer called for silence as several of the tribe’s young men placed bowls filled with a black liquid around the bonfire. They bubbled, boiled, and spewed out a thick smoke. Ezree began to sing, and the smoke joined her in dance. It swirled around her like draped silks, and she parted it like water only to watch it rejoin and billow in time with her song.

Vor smiled and clapped Polas on the back, pointing at shapes as they formed in the trailing wisps. Three figures formed in the roiling cloud, and those closest to the bowls began to see colors as well.

Xandra strained to listen to the song, trying to make out the words.

"Master," she said to Flint, "what is she saying?"

"Let your mind relax and listen," the Faldred responded. "The words are not so different than High Peltin, simply a degraded dialect. She is telling the story of Kas Dorian’s last visit to their clan. Her magic will help you to understand."

Xandra nodded and let the music carry her. The song washed over her and transported her mind into the tale.

~ 1000 years ago ~

It was one thousand years, seven ages, almost an eternity ago, when Polas had visited the Dorokti. Narci and Ranar walked beside him, and a fourth companion waited behind with the horses. They were younger then, before three solid years of war had stripped them of their vitality.

Narci led the group into the camp in a time before there were divided clans, when they were only the Dorokti. The Eryntaph’s presence commanded respect, even from those who had never laid eyes on him before. The proud warriors of the Dorokti inclined their heads in deference as he passed.

Polas and Ranar followed close behind. The Dorokti warriors numbered in the hundreds of thousands. If the generals’ dreams were to come to fruition, they would need these legions.

The three generals entered a tent not unlike the modern Ginakti tent, though it was painted and dyed with roots to depict a scene of the plains and its inhabitants. Within waited a council of elders and the Lord of the Dorokti, Ve. He resembled Vor in many ways, save that he was more scarred, lacked three fingers on his right hand, and his eyes held a terrible sadness.

The council members bowed in greeting before taking their seats on segments of fur around a pit of hot coals. Polas and the others followed their exampled and sat next to the low brazier.

"We know why you are here," Ve began. "We know why you have sought us out."

"Then you know the importance of our task," said Ranar. "You will join us, then, to bring low the mighty God of Fear?"

Ve looked to the elders then back to the generals. He shook his head.

"The mists are clouded," Ve said with a sigh. "We cannot risk the Dorokti at a time when we are so close to falling apart ourselves."

Ranar attempted to stand in indignation, but Narci rested a strong hand on his shoulder.

"You can’t be serious," Ranar yelled. "It is our destiny to destroy Exandercrast once and for all."

"No, my friend," Ve replied, "it is not your destiny, and it is not mine." He turned to Polas. "But you, the Iron Blooded man, you must return to us. When time has gone and come again, return to us, and the leader of the Dorokti will follow you into the abyss."

He leaned forward and plunged his hand into the hot coals. His face showed no pain, but held only its previous sadness. Before his hand could cool, he reached out and grasped Polas’s hand in his.

"I swear it."

Polas looked confused and Ranar was furious, but Narci bid for them both to wait for him outside of the tent.

"I would urge you not to take your battle to Firevers, but --" Ve started.

"But we both know this battle must occur," Narci said.

Ve bowed. "You have great
nonlin
, Eryntaph."

"I regret that my honor may not matter soon, but yours and that of your people will be questioned by those who do not understand."

"We have called ourselves the Fallen before. May we wear the name as a curse until the day our oath is fulfilled."

"Your bloodline is now bound," Narci said. "Do not fail him."

Xandra blinked several times as the music faded, and the smoke began to dissipate. Beside her, Flint wrote excitedly in his journal. She stood slowly as her senses fought off the lingering effects of the arcane song.

The gathered Dorokti sat in silent contemplation. Even the children were quiet as the Seer went from bowl to bowl, covering each with a ceremonial hood. When she had finished, she turned to Vor and raised her staff.

Vor stood. "My people, eat! Drink! Tomorrow I go to slay the God of Fear!"

 A great cheer erupted from the crowd, and Xandra shook as waves of emotions swept over her. All at once, she felt anxious, joyful, hopeful, and – somewhere deep down – afraid.

Flint roused her from her introspection with a light touch on the shoulder. "Well," he said, "I’m off to bed. I suggest you do the same. It sounds like we have a lot more travel in our near future."

"Master, wait." Xandra stood and dusted off her knees.

"What is it, my student?"

"If the Dorokti had joined the war effort, is it possible that Exandercrast would have been defeated one thousand years ago?" Xandra’s voice was shaky, and she spoke in quiet tones so as not to be overheard by any of the Ginakti.

"It’s possible, yes," Flint replied.

"Then isn’t the prophecy that came to them... wasn’t it at least partly to blame?" Xandra hung her head. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t question these things."

"Xandra, there are many possibilities for what could have happened, and there is nothing wrong with questioning so long as you are open to answers. From what you know of history, would even one hundred thousand Dorokti have made a large difference at
Eena Grolah
?"

Xandra shrugged.

"And if they had not, then there would be no Dorokti King to pledge his axe to Master Kas Dorian today."

"But if one hundred thousand would not have made a difference, what good will five be?"

Flint rubbed his neck. "That, my dear, is an answer that even I am still open to. But, I do know that I do not want to miss the opportunity to be part of that answer." He patted her on the shoulder. "Good night, Xandra."

Xandra bowed to her teacher. She tightened her robe around her to ward off the evening’s chill and walked off toward the quieter parts of the camp in search of answers to the thoughts that burned within her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Flint had fully intended to head directly to his tent where he could get some much needed rest, but Polas and Vor were up to storytelling again, and he simply could not ignore the opportunity. He grabbed another rib of mutton and squeezed his way to the front of a group of seated Dorokti children. A tiny girl, no bigger than a Cairtol, with sharp, black ears, a tiny pink nose, and spotted fur scooted out of his way as he sat.

Polas was in the middle of a tale about some dread beast, and Flint had to scramble to get his journal and cinder stick out so that he could take notes.

"But the worst part was his breath."

All the children laughed, and Flint looked around the group trying to get up to speed with the joke. "Worst part of what?"

A young boy with curly, black hair looming over single-point horns shushed him. "He's said he hated to fight a cinder-born tri-horn because of its breath."

"Truly? He saw a cinder-born tri-horn, and he fought with it?" Flint was aghast. Such a rare and powerful beast, the making of a legend. "Did he win?"

It was the little girl who answered him. "Well he's here telling of it, isn't he?"

 Flint cleared his throat and straightened his back. "True enough." He made a few quick notes in his book, something these children could not yet do, and returned his attention to the king and the general.

Vor clapped Polas on the back and finished off a cup of melon wine. "A harrowing tale, Iron Blood, but let me tell you of when I stumbled into the den of a wolragen pack."

"No!" Flint practically slammed his journal shut in shock. As it was, he dropped his cinder stick and had to retrieve it from the grass.

Vor gave him a curious look but continued his tale. "I'd been hunting in the Reveriet Mountains, living off what I could forage, sleeping where I could find shelter, when a lightning storm sprang up from the east past the Sea of Dreams. My hair stood on end as I ran from boulder to boulder, dodging bolts all along the way. Finally, I saw a large cave within reach and rushed inside. I hadn't been inside longer than five beats before I heard the growling, louder than the thunder. Four of them came out of the darkness. The three smaller ones were taller than me at the shoulder, and the biggest, she was half again as much.

"Now wolragens are as bad as drakkens, don't let anyone tell you different, and they hunt in packs."

"Were you afraid?" one of the children asked.

"By rights and sanity, I should have been. But no, I was angry. I was angry at the storm for chasing me. I was angry at the cave for taking so long to find me. I was angry at the wolragens for camping in my tent. The next thing I knew, I was standing on the headless body of the pack leader with one of the others gutted a few feet away. I was slashed all to pieces, but my blood stayed in and I refused to die."

"You are a true Dorokti Berserker then?" Polas asked. "Like Ve was."

Vor nodded.

One of the children asked, "What's it like when you get your rage?" and Flint thought it a very inspired question.

"It's difficult to say. Things slow down and take less meaning. All that matters is your axe, and every strike only makes you madder."

"Do you think I could be a berserker?" the little boy with the dark, curly hair asked.

Polas answered. "I would guess that such a thing does not often come to one who seeks it. Better to prepare yourself in discipline so that your rage will have an able body if ever it does find you."

"Well said." Vor clapped Polas on the back again. "And that, I think, is enough of stories for tonight. All children who wish to one day honor their clan in seeking their dreams should be off to bed to find them."

The group of children let out a collective groan, but did as their king commanded.

Flint finished scrawling a few more lines and returned the journal to his pack. He stood and lumbered off toward with tents. What an incredible story. To think, he had thought to sleep early and would have missed the whole thing.

On the far side of the Ginakti encampment, Kiff sat on the roof of one of the few wooden structures in the village. The building was an old Madurian military outpost, a remnant of the Amethyst Wars that the clan had converted into their temporary storehouse.

Xandra saw him from a ways off and approached.

"Any room up there?" she asked.

Kiff shrugged and waved her up.

She looked around for a moment, trying to find a safe climbing spot. A few tanning benches held hides and tools near a small tent a short distance away. Xandra dragged them over and climbed up. The roof was a bit wobbly and creaked with each step she took.

Kiff reclined on his elbows and stared off over the plains. For a moment, Xandra longed to pull away his mask to see his eyes and face to catch a glimpse of his hidden emotions. He turned toward her and gave a quick, two-fingered salute. She sat beside him, not so close as to touch, but close enough not to feel alone.

The two shared in each other's quiet company for a time, the bright moons throwing soft shadows across the ground beneath them.

"It’s not as easy as all that," Xandra whispered.

"What?"

"When your name means ‘fearless’ you have to act a certain way, believe a certain way, all the time," Xandra continued.

"Oh."

"It’s not always so easy. You had asked me before. That’s all I was saying."

Xandra stared out over the village into the plains beyond.

"How old are you, Kiff?" she asked.

He looked at her and cocked his head.

"I’m only sixteen, and I’m supposed to be this great hero, the ‘Daughter of Hope.’ Sometimes it’s just too much, you know?"

Kiff leaned back on his elbows. "Then give up."

"What? I can’t quit!"

"Why not?"

"Because, it’s my destiny," she replied. "It’s what I was born for."

"A destiny isn’t yours until you choose it. If it’s so much pressure pretending to be fearless, just give up," Kiff replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Don’t be fearless anymore." Kiff leaned forward and pulled out a small dagger. He twirled it between his fingertips. "I’m a lot of things, but I’m sure as the hells not fearless. That’s a quick way to end up dead."

Xandra lay back and stared up at the stars. It took her only a moment to find the constellation Kowaina, the Watcher. From there, she drew a line across the sky to Seftis, the Maiden, and down to Lahngrol, the brightest of all stars. As the skies changed from Age to Age and new suns and moons and constellations shone in the heavens, Lahngrol was the one constant. It never moved, never faded, and never hid itself away.

"Look, no one can tell you what your destiny is," Kiff said, bringing Xandra’s wandering mind back. "You either choose this path, or you pick a different one. It’s that simple."

She sat up. "It’s not that simple, Kiff. This is the only life I’ve ever known. I can’t simply get out of the boat and find a different river."

"That’s where you’re wrong," Kiff stood and laughed. "You think your destiny is a river pushing you downstream. That only leaves you two options: you can go with the current, or you can fight it. The truth is your life is the ocean. It connects to everything, and you can go anywhere you want if you just start rowing."

Xandra watched him as he walked along the roof’s edge, his arms out for balance. He teetered a few times, but was able to remain upright.

"Your life is an ocean," Xandra said. "You don’t have anybody else to worry about, and you don't have people expecting you to do or be things for them. You can do whatever you want. My responsibilities are much more… burdensome."

"Xandra, the only way you’re ever going to feel free is if you stop weighing yourself down and let go. When I was in school - yes, I went to school... for a while - I took a class where we had to learn ancient poetry. I’ve always been rubbish with languages, but one of those old High Peltin poems really stuck with me, or, at least, the end of it did. ‘
Tasak ahvna ov, ov sirahsool
.’ It means, ‘with everything I am, I fall.’"

With that, Kiff tipped over backwards and fell off the roof, arms flailing.

"Kiff!" Xandra scrambled forward only to see the Undlander floating away on his hovering board. He gave her a quick salute before disappearing behind a nearby tent. He was so brash and immature; it aggravated her to no end. What irritated her more was that she felt slightly jealous of his freedom. Kiff could say what he wanted about her choices, but she knew the truth of her path. Or at least she was pretty sure she did.

Xandra sat alone with her thoughts. The noise of the crowd died with the last embers of the bonfire, and the villagers headed to bed. She could see Polas and Vor in deep discussion, and she saw Kertyah sharpening his spear outside his tent, keeping careful watch over his lord.

The Daughter of Hope looked out over the plains. Wind drove over the land and rustled the tall grass. Creatures sought shelter from the night’s cold air. Far away on the outskirts of a modest town, a mother rocked her child back to sleep, and a father locked the door to their simple home. In a forest crowded by twisting vines and entangled roots, a hunter warmed his hands by a small campfire. In a distant city, the nightwatch began their rounds, and revelers said their fond farewells until tomorrow. Across the sea, a wrinkled man lit a lighthouse beacon and blew his candle out. In a far off country, a queen sent her meal away scarcely touched and retired early with her concubines. At the edge of the world, darks cliffs waited for any who might push too far. On the roof of small wood building, in a humble Dorokti village, Xandra sat staring at a single star in a sea of inky black.

Hours later, after all but Kertyah and a few guards had gone to bed, Xandra slipped down from the roof and made her way to her own tent. Sleep found her shortly, but did not bring with it rest. Her dreams found her chained down before a dark god.