Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael (12 page)

14.

Rael’s feet hurt.  He bought a horse right after his first return visit to Sanctum after killing Demon, and he always had a horse throughout his employment in Akor and his travels into the North.  When he felt the pull southeast, he knew it was beyond the mountains, yet not too far away.  Rael had already found that a horse’s usefulness throughout the mountains was somewhat limited, and so he decided to undertake this journey on foot.  He had forgotten how hard it is on the feet to march every day carrying the weight of steel armor, something of which he is now well reminded, and the aching began before he made it to the foothills leading into Losz. 

At least spring had warmed the air enough to keep snow away.  After Rael’s first winter in the North, he has seen enough snow to make him completely uninterested in the stuff.

The foothills connecting northwestern Losz to the North is very little different from those joining the North and Aquis, at least to Rael’s eye.  They roll up and down such that one can see for miles from the top, but has no inkling that the outside world exists when at the bottom.  Almost knee high grasses grow here, and trees are few and far between.  What few do grow are barely taller than a man and have sparse branches and leaves.  The deep and narrow valleys between the hills shield him from the cold winds and would make hiding easy, should he need to, and as such Rael camps in them every night without a fire.

On his third day into the foothills Rael finds himself in high spirits, for the air is warm and the day bright and sunny.  The hills begin to level a bit, the difference between their peaks and valleys substantially less extreme.  He stops at one crest to look long in the direction that his blood pulls him, and his eyes are drawn just off of his path to the right.  He stares long and hard, willing his eyes to make out the vista with better clarity.  It does not work of course, but he tries anyway.

“How could I not have seen that before?” Rael asks no one in particular.

Off in the distance stands a black, spiraling tower that seems to glow purple in the bright morning sunlight.  He’s never seen a Loszian tower, but he needs no one to tell him that is what he sees for it matches every written description he has ever read.  The thing almost appears as the center point of a blight on the countryside, for the lands at least a mile around it appear sick and black.  In drastic contrast to the castles of Aquis, this tower has no keep underneath it and no walled courtyard or battlements.  As if the tower itself is more than enough to protect its inhabitants from marauding Northmen, it sticks out from the land like a twisted black splinter.

And then Rael wonders if someone atop that tower can see him, his steel armor gleaming brilliantly in the spring sun.  Rael drops to his stomach with a jingling of steel armor, looking up at the dark tower as well as his craning neck will allow.  He begins to inch backward from the hilltop and then instead opts for just rolling down to come to a rest at the bottom.  He pushes himself up to find the world spinning crazily and selects a sitting position rather than try to stand only to fall. 

Rael closes his eyes to think and allow the nauseating motion to slow and finally stop while considering his predicament.  Even if some Loszian had not spied him, he certainly could not inconspicuously saunter right through the lord’s lands, even at night.  If they did see him, there is no doubt that someone is being dispatched his direction right now.  Rael climbs to his feet and follows the sun east.  If he stays within the shadows of the hills for a few miles, he should then be safe to follow his blood.

*              *              *

Northwestern Losz surprises Rael with its scarcity of people, either Westerners or Loszians.  Perhaps there is little here of value or perhaps the Loszians do not wish to constantly fend off the Northmen, but it seems the necromancers simply do not have an interest in this part of their empire.  Rael crosses no other towers and no towns or villages in his passing, but of course he avoids the roads, just allowing himself to be led.  Not unlike Aquis, the country is easy to travel, though slightly more hilly. 

Over perhaps three hundred miles in fact, he had encountered living souls only once.  Four black armored men drove across country with whips and blades a score of filthy, ragged Westerners.  Though he watched them closely, they seemed to pay him no mind at all.  The slaves never looked up once, sullenly marching where their masters demanded.  He could have done something; he could have attacked the slave drivers, cut them down to free the Westerners, but what then?  From the looks in their eyes and their hunched backs, they had no fight in them.  They likely would have just stopped and waited to die, or perhaps they would continue their march.  Or worse – what if they turned on their savior?  No, Rael simply let them continue on their path and he his.

After weeks of walking through Losz, Rael knows he is near his destination.  The pull in his blood is at once more urgent than ever, yet weakening in its intensity.  He knows he is near where he needs to be.  The topography of Losz has not changed, however the flora and fauna have.  In fact as far as wild animals are concerned, he has seen none for days.  There are no trees or bushes, and the lush grasses he has come to expect underfoot have changed to intertwined vines.  The vines are tough and wiry like leafless kudzu, and they threaten to trip him if he does not take care.

Rael crests a hill, and he knows he has reached his destination.  Below him is a long overgrown and weathered ruin set into a basin created by hills on four sides.  The hill to the east of the ruin is actually more of a long ridge that runs north to south for as far as he can see from this vantage point, and he cannot see past it.  Looking back down toward the ruin, Rael can see only three partial walls jutting jaggedly from the choking vines that cover the area.  As he cautiously descends his hill down to the ruin he begins to notice that gray stone blocks litter the area, choked and covered by the growth.

When he reaches the basin, the bottom of the hill, Rael again slowly surveys the ruin.  Somehow, if he didn’t know it would be here, he might not have even seen it.  He knows what this place is or rather what it once was.  It is the second such place to which his blood has led him, third if you count Sanctum.  Though it was Demon that showed him Sanctum the first time, not his blood.  Rael does not remember the name of the Lord Dahken who built the tower here just before the Loszian meteor destroyed it, but he knows he read it at one point.

Much like Westerners might, the Dahken kept catacombs underneath Sanctum.  It seems they had also chosen a lower cavern for their dead in Lord Dahken Drath’s mountain hall. 
I wonder if the same holds true here.  Did they build this tower above some natural cave? 
Just as the thought crosses his mind, Rael yelps out in great pain.  He doubles over and falls to the ground as what feels like a rigid hand made of a thousand needles threatens to crush the base of his spine in its grip.  Just as he wishes for death, the pain vanishes as quickly as it came.

Go away
, says a voice.

Rael pushes himself up onto one arm and looks around the ruin, but all is quiet.  He asks aloud, “Who is there?”

Go away
, the voice repeats.  It is cold and unfeeling, much like a winter’s day in the North, and its accent oddly antiquated.

“Where are you?” Rael asks as he looks around, even though he knows that he hears the voice in his head rather than with his ears.

Leave this place, and do not return.

“I mean no harm, nor disrespect,” Rael says to the empty air.  “I only seek… I do not know what I seek, but I have been led here.”

There is nothing here for you.  Leave and tell others to stay away
, replies the voice with an air that allows no argument.

“I will leave you in peace,” Rael agrees.

Rael gathers himself and begins to set out up the hill from whence he came.  As he does so, he wonders why his blood, Dahk or who or whatever continues to draw him to destroyed abodes of dead Dahken.

15.

“My friend I am sorry I was not here,” Rael says as he stands in the ruin of his home.

“You have your path to follow,” Kryjek says, dismissing the Dahken’s contrition.  “Your blade may have helped against the Lars, but we won without it.  You are a warrior of Jek, but you are a Dahken first.”

“I meant I am sorry I missed your father’s funeral.”

“Death is a part of life,” Kryjek shrugs.  “He would not have wanted it.  Too many of us watched him waste away.  It’s not the way a warrior should die. 

“I will have some men come fix this,” the Northman says, dismissing the topic by pointing up at the large hole in Rael’s roof.

“Here,” Rael reaches for the floor where he dropped his belongings and hefts a heavy sack.  It is at least a foot around, and it barely closes for all of the gold it holds.

“No,” Kryjek says with an open hand meant to stop the Dahken.  “You are a Jek.  We do these things for the Clan.”

“Maybe, but I am a Jek who has not been here to help.  Take it.  I can always get more.  How long have I been away?  Ten years?”

“Twelve,” corrects Kryjek as he grips the mouth of the large purse.

Rael watches as the Northman turns and leaves the small house, and he sees the changes in the man.  His tall, almost lanky frame has become hard and wiry with the rigors of life, and his muscles appear as corded steel.  A full red beard covers his face stretching from ear to ear, excluding a four inch scar where a rival’s sword split his cheek through to the corner of his mouth.  It seems to Rael that Kryjek’s eyes follow everything with an almost stoic bearing.  Rael noted the absence of warmth in these people’s souls before, and Kryjek is no different.  If there was any, it has been replaced with cold pragmatism.

The hole in Rael’s roof is large enough for a man to fit through.  It seems that heavy snows during one winter caused it to cave in upon itself, as no one was taking care to push the snow off the roof.  His bedding, little more than a large pile of warm animal skins appears ruined from mold and dirt, and a thick layer of dust covers his one chair and the bear bones displayed proudly on one wall. 

In quiet disgust, Rael pulls the animal skins through the door of his little house to be burned.  To them adds two old buckets, one which he used to fetch water and the other in which he defecated; they both almost fall apart at his touch.  He stands in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and he stretches upward to gather a thick swath of the old thatch that makes his roof.  Rael then uses it as a broom to sweep over a decade of dust and dirt from the corners of his home into a larger pile near the door.  Once he is satisfied that he has all or most of it, he makes several large sweeping motions to push through his doorway. 

It creates a large cloud outside, and a child’s coughing alerts him that he is not alone.  Rael turns to look outside, and a small girl stands there amidst the swirling dust and dirt.  She coughs lightly, and then sneezes in a frightfully high-pitched “Ha-chew!”  She cannot possibly be as old as he was when Demon murdered his parents, and Rael doubts she weighs as much as his plate hauberk.  She looks like most children from the North with a head full of curly red hair, and Rael almost bursts out laughing when the image of a matching red beard comes unbidden to his mind.

Rael sets his makeshift broom against the wall and says, “I am sorry.  I did not know you were there.”

The girl sneezes again and waves her hand back and forth in front of her face to dispel the murk in the air.  It only seems to make the specks of dirt swirl about more, reflecting gold in the sun’s light.

“Chief Kryjek,” she starts, and then her words again fade as she chokes and coughs.

“Come inside, girl,” Rael says, and he takes her by the wrist and pulls her inside.  He slams the door shut behind her, causing a cloud of dust to kick up from under the door as it shuts.  Regardless, the action is mostly successful in its intent.  Rael opens a shutter on one side of the room to provide some light in addition to that which comes through the hole in his roof.  “Now what about Kryjek?”

Having regained her composure a bit, she adds, “He sent me to see what you need.”

“Need?”

“Your home is empty,” she prompts.

“Oh,” Rael says.  Looking around, he sees that she is absolutely correct.  There is nothing in the one room house except his chair and some dusty bones.  “I could use a few buckets and some new skins on which to sleep, perhaps an oil lamp if there is an extra.  A few wood planks that I can make shelves of would be helpful.  Can you remember that?”

The girl nods.  “Is that all?”

“You speak Western very well,” Rael observes.

“Chief Kryjek says we must all learn it.”

“You are not far from Aquis.  I suppose it would be helpful when dealing with their merchants and the like,” reasons Rael.

“And when we war.  Slaves should know their masters’ wants.  What else?”

Rael only shakes his head silently, his brow furrowed at the girl’s words.  He watches as she strides past him, pulls his door open and starts outside.  He calls after her, “Girl, what is your name?”

“Lorina,” she replies, and she disappears from his view, leaving his door open in the crisp northern air.

Rael drops heavily into his chair.  It again creaks under his weight a bit, but it is solid enough.  He had never put any sort of stain on the wood, though it was now a different color than what he remembers.  The chair is a simple bow-backed pine chair with a solid panel for one’s back in place of spindles.  When it was first brought to him as a gift, the wood was still wet and very yellow.  He was told to let it dry out over a few months, and then he could use any number stains to give it the color he desired.  Rael never did so, for it suits its function without being stained.  Also, he left only a few months after it was gifted to him.

“I am tired,” he says aloud as he slumps in an attempt to become more comfortable.  “Do you hear me, Dahk?  I am tired.  I have spent twelve years following my blood across the Shining West and Losz, and what have I found for it?  Nothing.  Death.  I know there are Dahken out there, but it is always too late when I find them, if I find them at all.  I am done with it.  I intend to stay here for the rest of my days.”

Even as he says these last words, he knows it will never happen.  Intent is one thing, but actuality is something different.  Rael had intended to come back to Clan Jek and live quietly, and then a little girl talks to him of war and Western slaves.  He would gladly fight alongside these people to protect their lives and homes, but attacking the people of Aquis is something else altogether, especially when it involves taking slaves.  He’s not sure that a Northman has ever taken a slave before, and Rael dozes off wondering from where Kryjek has gotten such an idea.

*              *              *

It took Rael three days to arrange an audience with Kryjek.  At first he thought the new chief was avoiding him, but apparently the Northman thinks he must be directly involved in every element of his clan’s activities.  Rael notes that his people seem to appreciate him for it, for so many rulers, whether their lands are large or small, seem to rule from ground above the masses.  The problem is that the Northmen demand ample time for anything from funerals to celebrations to just simple eating and drinking.  Every time Rael approached Kryjek, the man said, “Not now.”  Until Kryjek shows up on his doorstep, and the Dahken invites him in to talk.

“Why war on the Westerners?” Rael asks with little small talk.

“The clans are not united.  They war amongst themselves,” explains Kryjek, but Rael’s uncomprehending gaze does not change.  “A chief must show that he is strong.  If I can do this, other clans will support me.”

“So attacking the Westerners, taking them as slaves will show your strength?”  Rael asks.

“Yes.”  Seeing Rael’s hesitation, the Northman commands, “Speak.”

“Your word is law here, Kryjek, but this is a bad idea.  Clan Jek is one of the smallest in the North, is it not?  I do not know that attacking Aquis is wise.”

“I have led parties and slain three ice bears like Horjek before me,” Kryjek argues angrily, his green eyes flashing with fire.  “We fought Clan Purn outnumbered two to one and was victorious.  I choked their chief to death with my own bare hands.”

“I mean no offense, but would you throw your people against a walled castle?”

“Now you think me stupid!  No!  We raid their farms and villages.”

“And then what?  Kryjek, the Loszians enslaved the Westerners for over a thousand years.  They will not stand idly by and let their people be taken.  You ask for war, and they will send a force that will crush your people - longbows and steel armored soldiers and knights.”

“The North has repelled these invasions before.  It shall do so again,” Kryjek cries triumphantly.

“A long time ago, when the clans were united.  What if none of the other clans come to your aid?  Will your rivals not let you fall under Aquis’ assault to rid themselves of one more rival?” Rael asks, and for a moment, he thinks he has won Kryjek over as doubt flashes across the Northman’s face.

But the doubt fades away to be replaced by a smile when Kryjek says, “I have one thing that no Northman has ever had before.  I have your sword – a Dahken’s sword that slew an ice bear with no party behind it.  I have the sword of the only man known to the Northmen to have slain an ice bear by himself.”

“And what if I am unwilling to join you in war upon the Westerners?” asks Rael, though he suspects that he knows the answer.

“Then you are no longer of Clan Jek,” Kryjek replies with succinct coldness.

“I only wish to live someplace away from the Westerners.”

“This is not that place if you will not obey my word.”

“Kryjek, allow me to stay,” Rael implores.  “I will defend this place from other clans, from Westerners even if you goad them into war, but I will not join your attacks.”

“No.”

“I am sure you remember the heavy sack of coin I brought you, and do not tell me you have no use for it.  I will pay for my life here with gold,” says Rael.

The red haired Northman says nothing for a long moment; he simply stares into Rael’s eyes in consideration of the words.  Sensing no duplicity, Kryjek finally says, “Very well,” before storming from Rael’s small house with its new roof.