Into the Raging Mountains Page 9

  While she waited for her traveling companion to waken, she thought and planned. In order to clearly end her past pains, she wanted to find out what had happened to her mother. But she lacked the skill or power to fight whatever vicious beast had so terribly mauled her. Or, she could attempt to decipher her mother’s dying wish, to take the sapphire to Him, whomever that was.

  The trail of her mother’s adventures since departing their cottage was already a cold one. But perhaps as she traveled she could pick up traces of Trellista’s passage. Ha! How is that even possible? Time and location … She didn’t know where her mother had gone to and cycles had already passed. For all Alizarin knew, she and Rethendrel were headed in the entirely wrong direction.

  She offered a small, silent prayer to the Gods: Let me follow Mother’s footpaths that I may find her vicious attackers. May I be able to exact punishment for this crime and discover the reason why she died so horribly.

  Flipping the sizzling, browned dough, the grieving daughter, the Baker-On-Vacation relaxed deeply, watching minute life flitter around her feet in the morning shadows. The task of birthing in front of her was enough for now. The Gods would have to do the rest.

  Walking to the wayfarer well, she cranked the winch and began hauling up water for her waking wash. The first bucket came up clean and pure. She filled her waterpouch first, then washed her hands and the dirt off her face. She poured the remainder over her head, shaking out the majority of dusk’s road dust. She was bent upside down when Rethendrel poked his bleary eyes out of the temporary wooden structure.

  “Top of the sunrise to you,” she greeted him with a laugh. It was the first time they had spent that time of daylight together.

  The image greeting Rethendrel as he stuck his head out the doorway was Alizarin bent over, hair sopping wet. And so, amusement began his day.

  “And the rest of the day to you as well,” he replied. “What have you been making so early this sunrise, Baker?” He strode to the firepit, spying the fragrant food and the steam rising off the cup of cacao. “Ah, the joys of traveling with human companions. Your capable skills at breaking fast are very welcome.”

  Taking a sip of the steaming cacao, sighing in appreciation, he said,“This is almost as good as Theress makes, and that’s from a hearth.” Glancing at the full plate of flipcakes, Rethendrel’s stomach rumbled.

  “Just the breaking fast to get us on the road and keep us going.” Digging into the food, Rethendrel focused his attention on consuming hot, buttered, crispy dough.

  Alizarin flipped her hair over her back and expertly braided it, neatly looping the rope into a bun. Throwing the bucket down the well mouth for a second filling, her muscles easily pulled on the twine to raise the water. “Do you want to sunrise wash a bit, Rethendrel?” she asked.

  A grunt was his only response. Rethendrel happily had his mouth full.

  “I will water Samton then, with this bucket,” Alizarin spoke for both of them.

  Walking with the second bucket of water, she lugged the heavy container within reach of the picketed donkey and filled the permanent trough of cracked stone. As she turned to replace the bucket, she chanced to look inside the hollowed wood. Something glimmers? Reaching into the pail, fingers searching, Alizarin pulled out a tiny, square topaz gemstone.

  Seems to be my lucky day! Throwing the bucket into the well mouth again, now looking for any other hidden treasure, she hauled the heavy load to the top of the stone opening. Peering inside, she found nothing but smashed hope. Ah, well. It would have been nice, if a bit unlikely, to find a mound of treasure down the traveler’s well.

  Adding the little gemstone to her purse, Alizarin went about helping Rethendrel clean up the small camp they had made, tucking several cakes in her apron for travel snacking. She didn’t worry about Ver. He had a large pack of baked goods and a full waterpouch, more than enough to keep his pace steady with them on this short journey. Packed and loaded cart ready, Rethendrel and Alizarin set off for his main farm and waiting family.

  Daylight warmed the land, glistening on the evaporating dew, shimmering on the crops full of seed, ready for harvest. Workers could be seen all along the route, busy with the peak of harvest season. They gathered in their hard-won crops, preparing for snowfall. The two companions fell into a comfortable silence, each absorbed in thought. Lurching along the rutted road, the cart made a rhythmic sound which followed along behind them: squeak, grumble, clang, squeak, grumble, clang!

  *

  Ilion had risen early with Alizarin and left the camping area slowly. He did so in part because of his stealthy abilities, and partly from the goose egg still freshly imprinted on the back of his head. Having touched the wound investigatively while changing the dressings, he was puzzled by his luck, although he was extremely grateful. That blow should have killed me, or left me unable to walk.

  Having learned a few things about the remaining Stave of Thenta in his possession, he knew some gratitude must go to it, or the forces bound within it. It seemed to have given him some extra protection by just being examined prior to the initial theft, and then having been across his lap at the moment of attack. He turned the intricately carved top again, examining the way the spirals merged together to meet at the central point, yet the core was hollow. Alizarin had related to him some of what had happened while he slept in her shop, and Ilion realized there might actually be some types of magic in the world that he had not even considered. This is a powerful object. Having it in his hands meant a whole realm of ideas for him to consider.

  Most of the “magic” he had encountered during his apprenticeship and procurement career could have been more truly named sleight of hand. Conjurer’s tricks and carnival entertainments, base amusement for the lower classes, those had been his experiences. The gathering power that Ilion had trained for as a youth was a physical and mental discipline that became an art form. There was no magic about it.

  Even the mind magic that Old Falcon used on him during the bidding for the staves was possible through trickery. Ilion had thought it to be some form of illusion attempting to manipulate the competition. But then why did the old man walk out of the bidding after he had been so cunning in the delivery of his terse and imperious message? If the object was to intimidate or confuse the concentration of other bidders, wouldn’t the Old Falcon have stayed to claim the lot?

  A person can’t be in two places at once. Maybe it was a spiritual sending? Where was that old man going to come up with four thousand or more sabals anyway? He hadn’t had much from the look of his torn and much-mended clothing. If what the Old Falcon did wasn’t a trick, then that would be the only other time Ilion had seen such use of the spirit magic, as he had begun to call the staff’s power.

  If those two occurrences were not unique, how many more awe-filled moments were upcoming? Ilion wasn’t certain the introduction or reinvention of this spiritual power was going to end well. So far the staff had been helpful, if not miraculous. But did that mean he needed to give credence to Old Falcon’s ramblings at the bidding? Ilion thought he had said something about serving some unnamed “Him.” That was all he remembered.

  He had no idea who “He” was, unless the old man meant the Falcons’ patron. He knew little of their sect, and what he had observed of them in Dressarna had not interested him in knowing more. Harrumph! All of this made his head spin. Ilion had always thought life in the byways and underworld of Dressarna was complicated and fast paced. Clearly, this magic power was a new element and bore some serious study.

  Slightly shaking his woefully sore head, Ilion left the camp area of the wayfarer station and wandered to the small stream burbling by. It was low from the hot sun of harvest season, but there was still a remnant of snow on the distant mountains to give some sparkle and clearness to the passing water. Choosing the privacy of the wandering stream to the possibility of intrusion and discovery at the wayfarer point, Ilion pulled off his cloak, tunic and undershirt. Not trusting the environment enough to complete
ly disrobe, he left his shoes and trousers in place, the staff placed on the ground by his side within easy reach.

  Kneeling at the shallow bend, scaring the minuscule froglets and riverlife, Ilion carefully poured cool water over his hanging head. Closing his eyes, traveling within himself, he gathered in. In balance with the surrounding land and water, he channeled more peace and healing through his heart to his head wound, which showed no sign of infection and was knitting together quickly. It would be a whole cycle at least until he was completely healed, but progress was good. Dripping water down his forehead, Ilion could feel the coolness trickle down his back and spin over his skin, running off back to the stream, taking many of his concerns with its passage. A new day.

  He sorted priorities and events in his head, wondering if Green Girl had figured out the current lay of the land. Ilion threw away all that trouble and stretched his gathered form with his old grace. Transitioning from one form into another with elegance, he renewed his body and mind connection. Security in times of war often came from communication and rehearsal; he practiced both.

  Only a few leads to his enemies were left, though Ilion knew certain death awaited him if he returned to Dressarna without being fully healed. It would take careful planning to flush out the prey without being caught himself in one of the many traps the thieves had no doubt laid. Pursuit of justice would happen, Ilion vowed to himself. Pursuit of vengeance would then follow. For now, there was only the flow of water, time, and energy around him, reconnecting with the precious and the true.

  Feeling renewed from the water and the gathering, Ilion effortlessly dressed. Comfortable again, after shaking off most of the casualties of travel inflicted on his clothing, Ilion set out across the substantial field of grain connecting the stream and the travelers’ station. Cutting through the rows of tended seeds, intent on regaining Alizarin’s company as unobtrusively as possible, Ilion almost missed the dirt-covered hand emerging claw-like from the ground.

  It was clearly a man’s hand, blue and cold, covered in mud and flies. It almost looked like a moss-covered rock formation or a small, scrawny bush. Leaning closer, Ilion found the remains of a body connected to that hand. Newly dead, probably a day or less.

  He brushed aside the light covering of debris to reveal the shaven scalp of a priest. Quickly uncovering the body, only slightly covered in stalks of grain, Ilion realized he knew this man. Dirt covered the brilliant blue, dulling the clothing, but sadly confirming Ilion’s guess. It was the older priest of Kira from the first bidding session at the Dressarna Auction.

  Stunned, Ilion sat back on his haunches to consider this new development. As he inspected the dead, Ilion could tell several things: the body had been hastily dumped, with no care given to last rites of Kira, and no clothing was taken. A thief hadn’t killed him then, and he hadn’t died of natural causes among friends. The other priest should have buried him properly, as was Companion’s Right. To find the old man lying abandoned and discarded in the middle of a grain field guaranteed that something foul and unexpected had transpired.

  Ilion found the body still had its cloak and shoes, which a thief would have taken to sell secondhand, and there were a few sabals in the corpse’s side purse. Ilion searched the body for the private purse, and found it also unopened. He took both sacks, hanging them on his belt to examine later.

  Ilion looked for the cause of death. With a shock of disgust, he found it. The back of the priest’s skull was crushed in, clotted with dried blood. The uneven ground around the head had absorbed the large pool of blood that had spilt. He looked into the open, glassed-over eyes that stared off into nothing and shook his head.

  Brushing his hands over the old, worn face, he closed those staring eyes forever. Laying the priest’s body in as close to proper burial position as could be expected under the circumstances, Ilion used his hands to hollow out a shallow grave away from the field and nearer the stream. Already dizzy from his own wound, and sick with how similar the two patterns of attack were in location and ferocity, Ilion had to stop several times to steady himself.

  Dragging the body to its final resting place, Ilion wondered why the other priest was not able to finish the hasty burial. With Hesnar’s blessing, I can only hope the younger one is not also lying dead in the vast fields of grain, staring blankly into the open sky. This old priest was clearly the one in charge during the moments of bidding, days past. Ilion would have thought that a trained priest of Kira would have been able to withstand the cunning of any attack. But then, Ilion would have thought it impossible to be attacked in the Gurgling Dove, while he sat protected against the back wall and have someone steal his own hard-won tradegoods. The world has gone topsy turvy.

  Covering over the deceased with reverence, Ilion offered the prayer to Kira that he remembered from his childhood. Weighing down the gravesite with five large stones from the stream, Ilion bowed to the mound, and once again started out after Alizarin. Passing the area of death, he saw a flutter within the fallen stalks of grain. Reaching down, he withdrew a scroll, its wax coating only slightly damaged from its recent burial. Tired already, Ilion decided not to read it, placing it within his public purse to review later.

  Scanning the surroundings for any more surprises, Ilion noticed movement in the shadows of the traveler’s station; something or someone was crouching there. Having had enough adventure for one sunrise, and already invisible using the staff’s protection, Ilion froze in his steps. He gathered in and settled for a long wait, watching the intruder, not wanting to chance being attacked again. If the two brutal attacks had the same perpetrator, who was after him? And why kill the priest?

  After the sun had left midpoint and beamed its strongest rays, Ilion watched as the hidden one began to move toward the well, very slowly. The shadowed man cautiously crawled, watching everything. Emerging from the shadows cast by the building, wary, obviously scared and uncertain, the missing younger priest half-limped, half-dragged his body to water. As Ilion had suspected, the man was much worse for the wear.

  Walking forward without loosing his calm-centered gathering, Ilion joined the road leading to the travelers’ station. Appearing as if he had just arrived, he ambled with the staff in his backpack, visible to all. He was trying not to scare the injured priest. And who knows, perhaps the fiend that attacked the men still lingers nearby. No point in attracting too much attention.

  Nonchalantly, he purposefully moved over to the well and began to raise the water-heavy pail, whistling jauntily as he pulled the bucket up from the depths. The injured man had retreated to the side of the station upon hearing his noisy approach. After evaluating the situation, Ilion decided to make it easier for a lost and wary man.

  “The water is for you,” he announced to the open air. He was rewarded with slight movement from the shadows. “Do you need any help?” Ilion queried. Moving his hands and arms to interlock, he gave the Nesting-Dove-Rests sign, followed by Bear-With-Honey.

  With a deep intake of breath, the younger priest revealed himself. Separating from the shadows, he nodded towards Ilion and, stumbling, fell to his knees.

  Ilion sprang to his aid. Helping him to the sunlit table, Ilion brought the bucket of water and set out a few pieces of Alizarin’s bread. Incapable of speech, the young priest drank deeply from the full bucket, using cupped hands. Stifling a groan that accompanied his actions, some of the injured man’s ribs were clearly broken as well as one arm and possibly a leg.

  This was the same disciplined man from whom Thenta had stolen the winning bid at Dressarna using supernaturally-determined horseflies. He could not have looked more altered. The calm strength and self-assurance of a man with purpose and integrity was missing, drained from him. His crazed eyes met Ilion’s with a challenge.

  “Are you one of them?” Then, answering his own question, he went on, “No, you knew the signs. But, did you see them?” Half-grabbing at Ilion’s tunic, “Darnan and I would fight them. Yes, we will fight them!” Looking wildly around, he
continued,“Where is Darnan?” Confusion crossed his face and came to rest in his eyes. “What happened to my arm? It feels odd?” Then the young priest fell off the table, over the edge of reason and into the waiting arms of kind unconsciousness.

  Ilion’s dilemma was obvious: Follow Alizarin and hide in relative safety amidst the chaos of new life at a large household, sure to be unnoticed, or help this poor man. It was never really a choice, even for a moral scoundrel. His true difficulty lay in protecting both of them from whatever had mauled one priest and left another dead. Ilion had the staff, but that couldn’t possibly be active as protection for days on end. The man has to heal.

  Come to think of it, the whole last few days had beaten Ilion as well. A safehouse—that was the obvious answer, something not too far away but close enough to simple food and water. Regrettably, every place that Ilion could think of was back in Dressarna. The travelers’ station might be good for a day or so with the staff’s protection, but the two capable, combat-trained men had been attacked nearby. Ilion could not defend himself let alone the badly-injured priest. We are too exposed.

  Ilion decided to use the cleverest option available and, after placing the unconscious man in the shade of the wooden building, walked back over to the cornfields. Striding easily, in spite of his injury, he crossed the planted vegetation and entered the shallow brook. Wading a little downstream, he found a thick stand of overgrown willow trees, dragging their branches into the water, spilling over with leaves not yet dropped for snowfall. Coming up to the trees from the stream, he left no prints in the surrounding land that could be followed.

  Parting the clustered branches, Ilion found a simple physical shelter, adequate to his needs. Aware it was going to take some doing on his part to get the other man to the willow screen, Ilion left all his gear in the protection of the trees, everything except the staff, and headed back.