Chapter 6 -- Coraig
For easily the hundredth time that morning, Frula scanned the nearby mountains for any signs of approaching Ostelan. The Untamed were only a few days' march from the ravine which would allow them passage between two arms of the Gambler’s Mountains. Guards were posted at night and tamers took turns sending out their hounds on long scouting missions for any sign of the mountain tribe. So far, none had been found.
“You should be paying more attention to the ground beneath your feet,” Esthair said. “The Ostelan have burrower blood, don’t forget. They’re far more likely to suddenly appear from a hole in the ground than from the mountains.”
Esthair was one of the oldest warriors from their clan allowed to join the army. Scars and wrinkles fought a battle for dominance across the woman’s skin, the wrinkles winning around her eyes and mouth while the scars covered more ground, especially on her arms. Otherwise, they were equally matched for now. A similar struggle played out in her long braided hair, white slowly winning more ground with each season.
Frula felt her face redden. Returning to the task at hand, she pulled another string of tubers from the ground, shook the dry soil away, and placed them upon a rectangle of grommel hide. When they had gathered a suitable amount, the men and women around her would carry the plants to another group to be cleaned and stored for later. No clans called these lands home and it showed in the abundance of edible plants growing wild.
“No cause to be embarrassed,” Esthair said, half-consoling and half-chiding. “Trust the scouts and your clan. Trust the hounds and tamers. But trust yourself first and foremost.”
Once she would have included their schel in those to trust.
“Have you ever seen them?” Frula asked. “The Ostelan?”
Every Untamed child knew of the Ostelan. Untamed mothers didn’t dare use the Ostelan to frighten their children, considering the race of mountain dwellers too offensive and terrible. The tales came from clans near the Gambler’s Mountains who suffered raids from the Ostelan, then passed word of their losses and triumphs to members of other clans when encountered in a neutral setting. Several times a season, various clans met to barter for various goods less plentiful in their own lands, and news was as valuable as anything. Elder siblings who had been allowed to visit such gatherings invariably told the tales of Ostelan to their younger brothers and sisters, delighting in exaggerations which frightened the young ones and left them unable to sleep well for weeks.
“My chosen fought the Ostelan,” Esthair admitted.
It was a shocking revelation. Desperate to know more, Frula ran through questions in her mind, wondering which would be appropriate to ask.
Esthair must have seen her struggling with whether or not to pry.
“Once, I’d not have spoken openly of the matter,” Esthair said. She spoke slowly, paying as much mind to her work as to her words. “But we are becoming a single clan, and I never felt shame at choosing him despite old hatreds and grudges. Roegne was from the Glasseyes Clan.”
The Glasseyes Clan was most distant from their own lands. They controlled territory near the mountains to the north and had joined the army only a few days before. Frula had never heard of one so distant joining another clan, but love had been a motivating factor for much stranger behavior.
“He only spoke of them once,” Esthair said. She pointed a dirt-encrusted tuber at Frula. “Mind you, he was drunk on spirits at the time, half-falling over and drooling. It’s the worst memory I have of him, which tells you the kind of man he was if a drunken stupor was the lowest measure of his character.”
Esthair smiled, and Frula couldn’t help but join her. With a quick motion, she pressed upon her chest above her heart. Doing so told the older woman her story would be preserved and cherished as long as Frula lived.
“As I was putting him to bed, he moaned and thrashed, lost in the past. He said, ‘They were nowhere then everywhere at once. The ground opened under Letty. I held on to him as long as I could but they were among us. Chaur bless him, when he saw the Ostelan fighting near us, tearing through our clan, he begged me to let go. After that, nothing much made sense for a time. Everywhere I turned there was another Ostelan. They had claws as long as my hand. Killed my share, Letty’s share, and another half-dozen for his children.’”
There had been rumors about the Ostelan’s penchant for ambushes. Most assumed they had learned the teleportation trick guarded so closely by the druí. Burrowing beneath the ground was mundane but effective.
“Have you told the schels?” Frula asked.
“Aye,” Esthair said. The grommel skin was full, so she whistled for others to retrieve it. When they had taken away the load of tubers and set down a new skin, Esthair continued. “Semit didn’t want to hear it, but I told him in the company of several other schels. They were scared. I could see it in their eyes. This was a few days back, and they haven’t changed their battle plans. Last I heard, they still mean for us to march in behind the skeletons and hounds.”
“I’d like to share this story with others,” Frula said, “if I’ve your permission?”
“Yes, and I’ll do the same,” Esthair said. She considered a moment, and then asked, “Do you know anyone from outside our clan? No? I know a few, so I’ll concentrate on them. See if Krave would be willing to share the tale with other tamers.”
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Unable to help herself, Frula checked the horizon once more. She felt better when Esthair did the same, and they shared a quick smile.
A storm approached the far side of the Gambler’s mountains. Gray clouds roiled and lightning flashed. It was terrifyingly beautiful, so different from the handful of light showers they received a few times a year. No matter the storm’s power, it would die out before reaching the Ashen Lands. Even clouds seemed unable to pass the Ostelan territory unscathed.
In the near distance a pack of grommel fed, their large mouths barely visible, chewing even as they continued plodding forward. There were said to be grommel in the Radiance, but they had been rendered docile by those who bred them for menial labor.
A tumult arose in the various clan camps behind Frula. They must have spotted the grommel, and a hunt would ensue. Soon, the tamers would surely set the slaghounds loose on the pack of grommel. If they could take down a male, the resulting meat would feed several clans.
Farther out beyond the grommel, a cloud of dust marked the returning tamers, Krave among them. They too must have spotted the grommel and were angling toward the still-unaware beasts. Frula wanted to be there when Krave returned, so she focused on her task, imagining the tubers to be hidden Ostelan warriors, plucked from the ground where they hid, hardly a threat as they dangled in her strong hands.
II.
In the center of their temporary camp, the clan leaders were arguing over who had earned the most renown during the grommel hunt. Everyone would share in the spoils, but only those who had brought down the powerful grommel would earn glory. Semmit had secured places for warriors of the Cleaver Clan, earning the most glory for himself before any others. He held aloft four jagged tusks, an appendage lacking in the grommel across the mountains.
Once very recently, Frula would have worried the clan leader’s renewed glory would make it impossible for anyone to challenge him. She still found it hard to accept Krave might be the one to issue coraig. But each step they had grown closer to the Gambler’s Mountains had increased the clan’s disapproval of their current leader.
Those still loyal to Semit, idealists or zealots who believed as he did that Ash was something more than a man, celebrated the victory with cheers and smashed their dual axes together. But off to the side, the greater percentage of clan members looked to collectively have a sour taste in their mouths.
Frula didn’t care for any of that except in regards to how it affected Krave. They rarely saw each other during the day, taking greater comfort in each other’s arms at night with the looming march into the mountains. Every night renewed their appetites for one another. Krave was ravenous and wild, more like the hounds than he had ever been before. It was as if all his frustrations with Semit were channeled into coupling with her.
They had barely spoken of Krave’s desire, or lack thereof, to challenge Semit. Despite her advice, he continued to test the schel’s patience with snide remarks or boastful comments, always delivered with a hint of good humor. Frula didn’t know if the others saw them as playful the way she did. Where once they had grumbled about Semit’s leadership, they now added frustration with Krave for not dueling the fanatical schel and taking his place.
Even now, Krave should have stood with the other warriors, accepting the adulation of the clan for his role in the hunt. So where was he?
Behind her, of course.
Except when she turned, sensing a presence, it wasn’t Krave. It wasn’t even human.
Jugular peered up at her. The largest and oldest of the alphas, his eyes shone with eerie intelligence when she met them. He bit her pants leg, urging her to follow with a gentle tug. Frula pulled the cloth free of the hound’s jaws, careful not to rip it. Luckily, Jugular released it as if it had anticipated the reaction. She looked around for any sign of where Krave might be concealed, but if he was in the camp, she couldn’t see him.
Not to be deterred, Jugular clamped down gently on her hand and pulled twice, urging her to follow.
“I don’t have time for Krave’s games right now,” she said. Still holding her hand, Jugular whined. It wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, but the weakness it displayed must have been humiliating for the proud alpha.
“Okay,” she said in a soothing voice. “I understand. Let’s go.”
For Krave to summon her in that way meant one of two possibilities. Either he was injured and hoped to hide it from the clan, or he had something special planned. As much as it infuriated her, considering his priorities should have been challenging Semit, the scene was pleasantly familiar.
He had only beckoned her with aid of the hounds once before–on the day he had become a tamer. Krave had sent two female alphas. She’d known at once they were from him.
Hadn’t he boasted that morning he would earn the title of tamer?
It had been her first time standing so near any of the hounds, and they made her nervous. Any full-grown warrior was more than a match for a single slaghound, but even two of the beasts could overcome a seasoned fighter. No tamer would admit it, but everyone knew they could silently communicate with the hounds. Frula had long suspected the hounds shared thoughts with each other, coordinating attacks with uncanny precision. The idea irked Frula, who fought with all her senses and didn’t like the idea of the hounds having one denied to her.
The two females had led her to the shore, an unfamiliar stretch of rocky coast with a small alcove in the rock. Krave had waited within. Stripped of his armor, he had worn a thin white tunic, his well-muscled arms and dark skin on full display. A small fire had burned near him, lighting the nook and what lay at his feet–a pair of axes, newly forged.
She had approached without a word, face as unreadable as the ocean’s depths. Krave, on the other hand, had grinned like a fool. She had wanted to be his chosen more than anything, but if she hadn’t, that smile--not confident or haughty, simply overjoyed at living that moment in time--might have convinced her to change her mind.
Still silent, she stood before him, arms across her chest, and stared a challenge into Krave’s eyes. He didn’t falter, no matter how long she stood there, his smile never diminishing. If she’d seen even the slightest dip at the corner of his mouth, she’d have considered it a victory and would have hastily reached for one of the axes. As it was, she found herself cracking, the corners of her mouth pulling upwards, made traitors by the infectiously joyful man before her.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, kneeling to pick up the axe on the right. Krave was there with her, squatting to meet her face, only a thin screen of air between them. He kissed her like an unblooded youth, as if it were the first time, as if he were a thief who needed to steal instead of asking for what she’d have freely given. It conveyed all the love and passion she would ever need.
They had each taken one of the axes and cut the other, a single line across the forehead. After, they pressed their heads together for an instant, blood mingling. Kissing desperately, they removed their clothes as if their lives depended on doing so with the greatest haste. They joined as chosen for the first time, bonded forever after.
Frula rubbed the familiar scar across her forehead as she followed Jugular, wondering where they were headed and what Krave had in store.