The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (6 page)

The arguments eventually cooled. Myrakka stood, her silver fur robe falling open to reveal a sky blue dress that clung to her body. Kafara glimpsed a stone knife tucked into the leather belt that cinched her delicate waist. It was no accident she had seen it, even though Myrakka casually pulled the robe over it. That knife could kill any Manifested with one stroke, and was a symbol of Myrakka's power and authority. Her glittering eyes surveyed the chamber before resting on Kafara again.

"I am an echo of domination, and I can vouch for the lure of that power. It is only through my great age and experience that I have resisted the desire to lean on it. But what of this new Dyad? The Prime is a Valahurian barbarian. How long before he surrenders to his inclinations for conquest and glory? How long before we all answer to these neophytes?"

"We are guiding him," Turo said. "He has already shown a great deal of growth."

Now Kelata spoke, almost as if he had been waiting for this cue. "You earn their trust. You become their mentors, then you use them to advance your own ends."

Kafara laughed. "Our own ends? I suppose you will supply a full-fledged conspiracy to entertain all of us? There has only ever been one Dyad to control any other, and that has been done through fear."

She let her eyes fall meaningfully to Myrakka's hip where her stone knife was hidden. Everyone in the room grasped the indirect accusation, though not all agreed. Myrakka's smile was thin in answer, and she inclined her head slightly as if to concede the point.

"We cannot say what the existence of a nineteenth Dyad means. As our sister Kafara has noted, the balance has always taken care of itself. She and Turo have acted according to their conscience. We have a more pressing matter to discuss." She again leaned on the dramatic pause to sweep the room with her gaze. Kafara gave an audible sigh and leaned back in her chair. "The nineteenth Dyad fought directly against this Amator, one of the First People, a descendant of the Tsal. You aided them in this when you should have realized that interfering with one of the First People breaks our ancient pact."

"And what of their part?" Turo shot up from his chair, his voice echoing across the room. Myrakka's brow raised at his tone, and Kelata now stood beside her. Kafara felt the heat of Turo's passion as if she stood beside a campfire. "None of the First People are even supposed to be in these lands, much less seek to conquer them."

Myrakka was shaking her head before Turo finished his accusation. "The gods banished them, and Phyros created his holy order to keep them at bay. Our part in the pact is simply to never seek them out, not to aid them, not to hinder them. They are nothing to us. And so through this pact the gods keep us in the world."

"The gods see us no longer," Turo said.

The room flinched and several gasps echoed into the silence. Kafara yanked him back into his chair, her heart thundering in her chest. She glared into his rage-red face, but could not find the words. She let her feelings of anger crash into his.

Myrakka and Kelata both feigned indifference, but all around other voices began to murmur. "That is a lie," said one. "Urdis the Deceiver has confused him."

"He speaks the truth many of us already know." Tirkin stood and gripped both hands on the chair before him. His fiery red hair hung across one side of his face. "The gods have abandoned us. That is why the balance is slipping. It is why we have all awakened at once."

Arguments exploded and the room engulfed in shouted debate. Turo smiled at Kafara, who could only manage a hiss. "Talk to me before you touch off a fire next time."

"It had to be said. You don't disagree?"

Before she could answer, Myrakka raised her hand for silence. She received it, no one wanting another dose of her powers of domination. Her voice was brittle as she spoke. "You have broken the pact, even if for a noble cause. Now I know not if this is connected to the news I have received from the north, but hear me now. The First People, the Tsal, have found their way through the mists. A white ark has come to Valahur, and its crew is even now coming ashore."

Kafara's hands turned cold, but before she could comprehend her terror, Myrakka continued with a bold smile.

"And the balance is indeed restored. The Prime of Domination, the one you had so foolishly sought to help, has fallen to an arrow fashioned from his birth stone and enforced with wild stone. His Cohort will soon follow in death. The spirits of the storm that see all that passes in the land and air have shown me this."

"We have to get back to Lethos," Turo whispered, grabbing her hand. "We have to leave this night."

Myrakka interrupted. "You two have interfered enough. By my rights as eldest of the Manifested, I order you bound to Vanikka until such a time as it is safe for you to leave again."

Turo again shot to his feet, cursing. Kafara did not listen to what he said. Instead, her mind was on a distant land where a great evil was taking shape and the only beings strong enough to thwart it planned to stand aside for a meaningless pact left over from the end of the First Age. Myrakka had condemned the world to death.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lethos had never made a lonelier trek in his life. Everywhere along the path to the village he found the signs of a desperate flight. Bloodied cloaks and rags tossed into the grass. Swords and shields dropped randomly like signposts marking a road. Dribbles and splashes of blood clung like brown rain to the dried grass, dozens of footprints having smashed the blades flat. He held Grimwold in both arms, never tiring or slowing his pace. He trudged along, trying to tell himself that he was headed to a welcome in the village any moment. Yet whatever he told himself, his mind fed him a sour taste of his reception.

The haphazard flight of warriors meant either they had been routed or something had caused them to abandon reason and scatter. A raging Minotaur would be good cause for the latter choice.

The sun nearly vanished and the blue cloak of stars was pulling overhead. The bird song in the distance mocked him as he followed the ruination back to the hall. He kept expecting someone to emerge from the sparse trees scattered along the fields that led home. Yet he knew no one would come. At best he spotted a squirrel leaping from one branch to another. Instead he focused on the grass ahead of him. It would be his luck for him to arrive in town heroically carrying the war chief and then trip over a lost sword. Not that he anticipated a merry gathering, but he still had his pride.

What had once been known as Sigurdsvik--and now simply as Greenvik--emerged out of the gathering darkness. Lethos was disheartened to see so few lights in the clusters of A-frame homes. At least the main long house had its front doors opened and golden light flickering within. All surviving warriors would have retreated there, for either rest or aid. He saw no movement anywhere, despite the signs of inhabitants.

"You could hear an ant die," Lethos said, ostensibly to Grimwold. He did not like talking to himself, though he found it a habit.

He turned sideways to fit Grimwold feet first through the front doors of the hall. A blazing hearth fire bathed him in warmth and the pungent scent of sweat and blood filled the room. He stood in the doorway, looking down on the gathered warriors who stared back in white-eyed silence. Nearly two dozen men had piled into the hall, and half as many women accompanied them. The warriors either clustered together on benches or lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. They were in various stages of health. The best among them appeared hale, while others clung to life while wrapped in blood-stained bandages.

Lethos stood with Grimwold in his arms, scanning the room for a friendly face and finding none. Only this morning these same men had greeted him as an old friend. He had been a hero of the battle of trolls, after all. Now, despite the snapping hearth fire, the room had grown cold. Lethos cleared his throat.

"He is not dead." He proffered Grimwold as if he weighed no more than a bundle of sticks. "This arrow has to be removed, but I fear I cannot risk it myself. I need help."

The words took a moment to bring a stir back to the room. Lethos carried Grimwold to a table and laid him on it. He carefully pulled away Grimwold's cloak and brushed his dark, sweaty hair from his friend's face. Then he glanced expectantly for someone to aid him. His eyes fell on an older man with a face and shirt both splattered with blood. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and his face sagged with the burdens of his years. His mouth was lost behind a thick gray beard, equally blood speckled. Lethos recognized him as Magnor, who was what he would call a surgeon. Of course, barbarian surgery was limited to limb removal and crude stitches, but Lethos had no other word for the profession. When their eyes met, Magnor reluctantly came forward.

"He's still your war chief," Lethos said. He spoke as if he were revealing a secret to a friend. The old man simply nodded and leaned over the arrow protruding from Grimwold's chest. It was like a signal for the others to relax. Men lay back down or eased back on their benches. Two of the healthier men wandered over, one with a bloody wrap around his forehead.

"This is in deep, very close to the heart," Magnor said. "He should be dead even if it did not strike his heart. Plenty else in there to cut open and bleed a man to death from the inside."

Lethos touched the dull ache in his own chest. "But he lives and the arrow must come out. Can you do it?"

Magnor forgot his hesitation with Lethos as he considered the arrow wound. He prodded the shaft and gaged Grimwold's reactions, which were nothing. Magnor grunted.

"It is odd that he be so deeply asleep when he has taken no blows to the head. I would have to dig out the arrow. There is no chance of pushing it through the body, as that would kill him."

"Actually," Lethos said then paused, touching his finger to his lips. Magnor and the others looked expectantly at him. "I don't think he would die. No amount of cutting or digging will hurt him over much."

The three men glanced at each other, and Magnor folded his arms. "I've heard the rumors of the war chief's proof against blades. But here he is with an arrow sticking out of his chest and knocked out like a drunk. So something can hurt him, and I don't want to be the man who accidentally killed the war chief."

"It is a stone arrowhead," Lethos said, now examining the wound himself. The links of broken mail revealed Grimwold's waxy flesh which puckered up around the shaft. Only a tiny stream of blood had issued from it. Lethos feared pulling the arrow out would be like uncorking a bottle and blood would geyser into the air. "It can be withdrawn, but I fear breaking the head off before it is extracted."

Magnor leveled his gaze at Lethos. "How do you know it's a stone arrowhead?"

"I saw it in flight, just before it hit him."

Again the three men exchanged wary glances. Lethos's face warmed as he realized how he must now sound to these men. "Look, here is your war chief in dire need. Can you help him or not?"

The answer came with Magnor's nod to the man with the head bandage. He stepped to another bench and retrieved a bloody set of knives and tongs. A woman bought him a bowl of water and rags. More men began to gather, though Lethos would rather have looked away. Grimwold was a still as death, and if he truly died, Lethos would follow. Their lives were intertwined in ways he still did not comprehend, but he remembered the madness he endured prior to bonding with Grimwold. He never wanted to revisit those days.

Magnor used tongs to break more of the chain coat and expose Grimwold's undershirt, which he tore away. He rinsed his tools in the water and patted them off with a cloth. Lethos could only think of rust, but the tools shimmered cleanly in the golden firelight. Magnor's hand trembled as he raised a long, thin blade over the entry wound.

"I'll cut away the flesh to loosen the arrow, then I'll give it a pull. Hopefully it's not caught on a rib. It was stone, you say?" Lethos nodded, and Magnor grumbled. The onlookers murmured at the news as well. He noted how they looked at him and how none came close. He stood alone by Grimwold's head, with only Magnor close.

The knife slipped easily into the wound and dark blood bubbled up and a thin line of it rolled toward his back. Magnor seemed to be exploring with the blade, and his eyes kept flicking to Grimwold's face. He did not move, and Lethos felt nothing but the same ache he had endured since the arrow had struck. Magnor sawed around and then gave a gentle tug on the arrow shaft.

"It's in tight, but I think if I am careful I can draw it back along the same path and out of his flesh. I've never dealt with a stone arrow before, but I am guessing it was not barbed. I'll cut a bit more to ease the arrow along." Lethos shook his head and realized how hideous this whole thing would be if it had been a barbed arrowhead. Did men really do such things to each other? Of course, he knew the answer but preferred not to consider it. He stared at Grimwold's face rather than watch Magnor at his gory work. The waxy flesh made him look like another person. Lethos had never felt so silent or so alone. For the last year, Grimwold had been a constant presence in his mind, even when not actively trying to contact each other telepathically. Now he was just--gone. He was not dead, but he was not present in any sense.

"I'm going to try extracting it now." Magnor's voice quavered, and Lethos chanced a glance at the arrow. More blood had seeped around the wound, but Lethos was watching it heal even as Magnor began extracting the arrow. "What's this?"

"We heal from wounds much faster than you do," Lethos said. Magnor gave him a confused look. "I'm not sure why he has not expelled the arrow yet. It is enchanted, I fear."

"Well, I don't know how to treat enchanted arrows. Wouldn't it have been nice to tell me that first?" Magnor shook his head and tugged the arrow even as the cuts folded shut around the shaft. "This isn't coming out the normal way. I'm no sorcerer. I'm just an old warrior who has spared a man or two from a fatal wound. This is beyond me."