Into the Raging Mountains Read online

Having accomplished all that was possible at his current location, Ilion washed his hands in the stream, and then sat beside the young man to eat the remaining nutty breadcrusts, with a bit of butter from his knapsack. He settled in to wait to see whether the priest would come through before he planned his next steps. The man was too weak to move, but help might come on the road at any time. It was the right time of cycle for it, but Ilion was not hopeful of his own prospects if he stayed another night near whatever had hunted the Kiran priests.

  All in all, he felt good. No, truly said, Ilion felt amazing. As if he had battled death and won the healing of the gods, or chanced upon the elixir of life itself. He was renewed. He gathered in again and paused to rejoice in his mastery of body and spirit. His options seemed limitless.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the Green Lady and her benefactor would be coming after him with a vengeance, determined to possess the Staves of Thenta. If they were all as powerful as the one he still held, they would be a treasure worth far more than one man’s life. Also, from Alizarin’s account, the couple who had accosted her, threatened her life, and nearly destroyed her full bakery of goods were focused on capturing and most likely killing him. Did they work for the Green Lady or another interested, unknown party?

  Having never encountered hidden enemies before, Ilion could see, looking back with contemplative wisdom, that everything traced back to that day at the Thieves’ Auction. Reflecting back on the showdown between the Gogonat warrior and his present priest companion, Ilion wondered what had caused the goddess Thenta to act so emphatically with her chosen messengers. What was in that lot that her divine will was determined to direct away from the priests? Or possibly, towards the Gogonats?

  In comparison, the ease of purchase regarding his specific auction lot was uncomplicated, save that odd encounter with the Falcon follower. He could barely remember what the man had said, accosting Ilion while not seeming to move at all from his bidding place and then just walking away from the competition. Ilion had given the nonsensical warning and the old coot who had given it very little thought since the auction, but now began to reconsider that dismissal. After the staves were stolen from literally under his nose, his life turned upside down and apparently worth very little, he began to wonder about the Him in the warning.

  Without a real clue as to who had robbed him, Ilion had nothing to offer as an explanation should he be found without the desired items when the Green Lady’s goons caught up with him. Someone in Dressarna has those staves! Someone had used him and discarded him with ease. Now that he felt better, he stood a chance of solving the puzzle. The stave he still had would help him sneak into the city unnoticed. After having been healed so miraculously, it was a worry, but only one of many now floating around his awareness.

  It is odd, is it not, that as we slept next to each other, some dread monster or beast ravaged the priest and not me? His companion’s physical situation deteriorated even while Ilion’s vastly improved. Did the staff heal one by taking from another? But what of the poisoned claw wounds? A staff could not physically have done such injury; it was no katar.

  My life is full of mystery upon mystery. It was clouded with other people’s interests and desires, and seemingly none of his own. He returned his mental focus to his body then, and stretched his limbs, feeling the limits of his strength and range of motion. Exhaling slowly, he released the gathering and decided to take stock of his possessions.

  He emptied out his knapsack, day purse, the dead priest’s two purses, and the found scroll and layed them all out on the red blankets he had also won in the Auction. Putting the silver bracelets to use, he laid them on top of the papers and scroll to weigh them down. He found no surprises in his own knapsack. The sole remaining staff laying beside him was what it was, whatever that was.

  Feeling somewhat invasive in regarding the dead man’s purses, he looked first at the found and slightly tattered scroll. Dusting off the bits of dirt, Ilion read the faded words, written in the language of Mira-seng. Most difficult to read in its elaborate swirls and embellishments, a precise and formal language covered the scroll with a partial account, as if torn from a royal decree:

  … against the sworn counsel Thou hast acted and wilt regret thy part.

  Though there may be pardon somewhere in the great beyond, there is no pardon here.

  We heretofore conclude our allegiance to Thee and thine.

  If, in the future of days and cycles,

  the sun rises to bless thy house and bring light to thy heart and hearth,

  We will not partake in any welcome.

  Treachery has a price.

  Thou wilt pay,

  and it will hurt thee beyond all words.

  Vengeance comes to every thief, all in the time of the gods.

  Our redemption will come through the Priests of Bira.

  Their power over the illness of thy motives must come from

  the blood of the slain and the righteous restoration of …

  The page ended with that partial sentence. The restoration of what? Ilion could only shake his head. Someone had definitely broken powerful alliances and it looked like they would regret that.

  He felt a little sorry for the poor Biran priests, seeing as how they would have spent all their time trying to calm their agitated goddess. No one in the temples of his youth had seen much of them. They must have worn themselves out, exhausted by Bira’s endless anger. In any case, the whole of the scroll left him with a feeling of vague discomfort and alarm, for no discernible reason.

  He looked over at the injured priest, watching the shallow breathing, the rise and fall of laboring lungs. Ilion wondered if any could survive such physical and poisonous damage. How did I recover while the younger man took horrible wounds? Am I or the Staff of Thenta responsible for the inadvertent decline of the already damaged man?

  Thinking back on the preventative actions he had taken the night before, Ilion couldn’t see any reason why the recently incurred claw marks had selected one out of two wounded men. The willow tree and its simple shelter was clearly not sufficient to protect them. Maybe this dusk while I sleep the attacker will come for another visit. Having already escaped a nasty wound last sunfall, he did not trust his well-being to the sparse cover.

  Since so little could be done to affect the fate of the injured priest, he decided to investigate the purses taken from the dead priest. From the contents of the day purse, he had already used a small part of the two vials, attempting to heal the putrid infection. Also in the public purse were several coins from various lands, all of large denominations, three necklaces of red woven silk with amulets hanging on them, and a small drawstring bag of dried and flavored meat. All were pretty much standard for the traveling life of clergy.

  Opening the private purse next, Ilion’s questing hand found a tiny fat scroll wedged in the side pocket. Withdrawing the cylinder from its confinement, Ilion was intrigued to find the whole item was sealed. He did not recognize the markings across the sticky coating. Past dealings with various items at the Auction had familiarized him with most religious symbols, both past and present. Oddly, he did not know these specific glyphs, although the cerulean wax meant it was most likely from the priesthood of Kira.

  A low moan rose from next to him. Quickly replacing the inventoried items, Ilion turned to the injured man. He looked remarkably awful. The medicines Ilion had used had been able to stop the poison damage, though far too late it appeared. While the wounds no longer reeked of cloying rot, the physical injuries sustained previously added to the freshly incurred claw marks appeared to have brought his companion to the edge of expiration.

  The younger man lay with his head lolling sideways, eyes half-closed and dull, full of the body’s natural buffering from intense pain. Another rattling escaped the struggling lungs. A sucking, wet, burbling sound accompanied his breathing. Despite all of Ilion’s efforts the man was dying. Damage that great to the physical body was simply not reversible.


  Ilion reached his hand over the priest’s hair and straightened the stray locks. At his touch, a dim awareness entered the vision of the weakening man. Speaking between a few hard won breaths, his pale lips moved to form words. His voice was only an afterthought, the sound was so minimal. Leaning forward, Ilion’s perceptive eyes saw the words more than his ears heard them.

  “To the Fire Maid. Take to the Mountain, take …” The sentence ended precariously, his voice drifting off to silence. His suffering eyes lifted to beseech Ilion’s. Eyes lost focus and stared into the surrounding, sheltering willow branches. Rattling and burbling, the last breath abruptly ended in a sigh. The Sigh of Departure. Ilion had last heard that tragic sound from Kalina’s bleeding lips.

  Another body to attend to now, another burial. Another wasted life. Another brutal attack. Ilion felt no particular sadness at the passing of the priest. Wounds that deep and terrible were a curse to live with. Mercy was granted by the Gods for their own reasons.

  His own body’s wealth of power and health seemed larger by contrast. At least one more burial wouldn’t leave him fainting from the sheer physical effort. Ilion offered a prayer to Mira. Then, squaring his shoulders, Ilion set to his gruesome yet compelling task: Companion’s Right.

  *

  Shadows fell, as shadows do without the burning rays of sunlight. In the heart of the mountains, they grew long and merged together, gliding without sound across the empty streets and pathways. A blanket of coolness slowly accompanied their ascent, as dusk passed and nightfall began. It was a relief from the torrid heat of harvest season, an oft-looked-for blessing after the sauna of midday for the parched throats of the seasonal workers. Palpable in its arrival, it brought with it a calming of frayed nerves and a relaxation of worries amongst the many dwellings that held the heart of the village.

  Resting in its embrace, townsmen gathered on covered porches to smoke leaf. Actually, they were emphatically shoved onto their outside porches by wives with more to do than pick up smelly remains and air the house from such enjoyments. Nodding to each other, sitting in the openings of their lodgings, some amount of cordiality existed and flourished. Stalwart, stern, and strong, most men did not want conversation.

  Silence was warmed by leaf smoke. The dusk-darkened streets glowed with contained incinerations. Each lit in correspondence with an intake of satisfied breath. The burnt peacefulness came from contentedness and from the sure knowledge that another day was full of accomplishment and fruitful toil.

  Three sunfalls from this would be the Harvest Gathering of the Council of the Elders. It was a time for accounting for harvest profits, and procuring provisions for the coming of the hard cold season. Preparations were made for many moonrises before the coming day. No family wanted to be short of precious food supplies when the bitter snowfall sealed them into the mountains’ embrace. All the villagers together worked to sustain each other, many engaged in different projects during the planting and growing seasons.

  Harvest gathering was the ideal time to exchange goods, mostly on a barter basis. Culminating the two days of trading and arguing, the last nightfall was the glorious celebration of the Harvest Dance. Then came the accounting at the gathering of the elders. All of this bustle of activity occurring in the next three suns was challenging but also rewarding.

  A wooden door along one of the many streets opened outward, welcoming the sweet night breezes. The bulk of a man diminished the light coming from the interior cookfire and temporarily caused an outline of his form to be viewed by his neighbors. Closing the creaking portal, a slightly shrill sound echoed down the road, as if his door had the pleasure of announcing his arrival. With a self-satisfied grunt after a long and wearying day, he sat.

  As fingers reached in the leaf purse to withdraw his smoking pipe, a tremulous voice rose from the flower bushes in front of him. “Sirrr?”

  Startled, the alarmed man felt his heart pound in his chest and his eyes flew wide open, seeking out the intruder. One hand came to rest on the hilt of his whittle knife. “Who is that?” he barked.

  The reply came quickly, submissively. “Pardon. Pardon, priest. I did not mean to interrupt your end of day.”

  What an idiot! Of course you meant to interrupt me, otherwise you wouldn’t have. Recovering himself slightly, he demanded, “Well? What brings you to my doorway, Torand?” One foot moved onto the first porch step, leaving the petitioner a bit off balance. Now, he could be clearly seen in the glow of the pipe fire and the interior window light.

  With a shock of unruly brown hair residing only on the crown of his head, Torand appeared as apt to startle as the priest. Somewhat nervously, he muttered, “It’s the rats, sir. The rats.”

  “Rats?” The tired priest was perplexed. “Well, how can that be a problem? They got your grain?” Continuing with his disdain barely held in check, the priest said, “Happily, I haven’t seen any. They aren’t bothering anyone this season, and that’s a blessing from the Gods.” Looking at Torand, who stood with his hayhat in his hands, kneading it systematically around the edges. “You come to bother me about this now? Surely, their absence is a benefit for all.”

  “Actually, sir, it isn’t. The village cats are scrawny and desperate for food. Also, the food that should have been eaten by the rats, the portion we normally lose, well, we have too much now and no place to store it.”

  “So, the formidable problem as you report it to me is that there are less pests and more food?” The priest shook his head at the ignorance of some of his followers. Torand’s name was now on the top of that list.

  Puff, puff.

  “Actually, sir …” Torand was at a loss for words. This talk was a disastrous wheel heading swiftly down a mountain. He stuttered a bit and then continued on in an emphatic rush, “Sir, the problem is that the cats are going missing too.”

  “What?” The priest’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, Farmer Standaf has lost five cats and seven others haven’t seen their farmcats for days on end. Normally, cats wander, thinking every dwelling their own, that’s true. But sir, they have all vanished! Most cats in the village are skinny and beg scraps from their owner’s tables, because there are no more rats to feed them. My daughter, Meeliss’s favorite mouser has been gone for almost a moonrise.”

  Cats and rats? For this my relaxation is interrupted? Really?

  “A bit ungrateful if you ask me, Torand. The silly, wandering cats are around here somewhere.” Without much thought at all, the priest had entirely written off the matter. His placation of the witless intruder of his relaxation continued. With a contemptuous snort, he opined,“Vanished? Impossible. Just put out some cream and milk and no doubt they will return. Although, that’s good information on the extra grain. Perhaps we will have enough to make a trading trip to Jutann. I will mention the surplus at the Elders’ Council.”

  Puff.

  Pleased with his knack for insightful reasoning and diplomacy, the slick brownish-gray hair on his head bobbed for moments after his jowls and knowing smile stopped nodding in implied commiseration. Dismissing the intrusion into his nightfall smoke, he said firmly, “Good moonrise to you, Torand.”

  With that, the priest turned his gaze out toward the moonlight shining on the roadside dirt, which was almost like the scattering of tiny diamonds, sparks winking here and there.

  *

  Nightfall approached. Excitement bubbled everywhere in the village. Full of hope, the emotion-filled wind passed through the throngs of people, almost visible as shimmering ephemera. This nightfall was the Harvest Dance.

  This nightfall brought all the surrounding families into the village. The seasonal trading and bargaining was completed for the harvest season and now all that remained was the great feast, the dancing and the celebration of a prosperous growth cycle. Laughter burst up from the milling crowds and pierced the air with exclamations of joy. Favored of Mira, the whole land celebrated its bounty.

  Over on the outskirts of the teeming town, under the eaves of
newly-laid roofing, the enthusiasm was physically present in one precious, precocious, dancing girl. What was worse, her younger twin brothers toddled about mimicking her every move, flinging themselves about with abandon without quite knowing why. It was rising chaos in a very crowded house. Finally exasperated, Tatanya walked to the doorway, held open the divider, and shooed the rambunctious circus outside, just hoping for a moment of calm while finishing preparations for the family’s contribution to the feast.

  Earlier, she had directed Azure and the twins to assist her in picking the remaining vegetables from their large garden. Most of the produce had already been used as barter to secure other goods for storage, so now only the largest and late-blooming ones remained. Even though the garden was almost finished, the last fruits of their labors filled five heavy woven baskets near the outer doorway. The family wagon was already loaded with tree nuts, candied fruits, and root vegetables for the feast.

  Tatanya had spent the greater part of the last moonrise making preserves, breads, and her favorite: pungently spiced harvest jelly. Their food closet was overflowing and the cool basement was packed and ready for the coming snows. From the outside, the house looked pleasant, perhaps even tidy, but inside the walls, ripe food lay on every surface in layers and layers. She set aside a few plates of pastries for the cart. Father went to the shed to bring the team to the nearly loaded cart.

  Azure was outside playing with her excitable little brothers, laughing and giggling and jumping on each other in uncontainable joy. As children are prone to do, Azure and the twins did nothing to help with the labors of their busy parents. They rolled around in the newly overturned garden dirt, switching each other with slightly sticky squash vines. Covered by the progress of hundreds of bugs alighting on and departing their bodies, they played on.

  After several moments of spastic joy and pretend play, the inevitable occurred. Grabbing and pushing, even when playfully done, almost always ended poorly. Azure and Vestin were busy building a formidable and deep mud pit when the other twin, Jaspin, without any reservation ran pell-mell into it.