Chapter 2 -- Untamed
The skeleton approached Frula’s clan near the end of the day’s march. The sweltering heat of the Ashen Lands was finally manageable as they prepared to stop. By the blue glow in the skeleton’s eyes, she knew Ash spoke through its mouth. Frula could see her schel nodding his head, looking into its spectral eyes with religious devotion. Unlike most schels, Semit asked no questions and made no arguments. The other warriors were right--something would have to be done.
The lowest of the firemounts, little more than raised cracks in the ground, spiderwebbed around the Untamed’s army. Though the firemounts vented smoke in a constant exhalation, no lava threatened to erupt and the ground was still beneath their feet. Regardless, Frula had grown up near the sea and didn’t trust such active terrain. She shifted, eyes darting to all sides while the Cleaver clan waited to hear news from their leader.
They didn’t have to wait long. The sun had fallen just below the Gambler’s Mountains to the east, so named because traveling through them meant anteing your life with each minute spent on a slope or in a ravine. The skeleton raced away and joined the rear of its army--rank upon rank of ash-darkened bones. Frula tried to keep her eyes on the messenger’s exact position, but when she blinked, she couldn’t be sure which skeleton it had been.
There were ways to tell the skeletons apart. They were different sizes. They had broken or missing bones. Skulls were often as pockmarked as the Ashen Lands. Battles when they were alive had left marks, and very few had a full set of teeth. The problem was there were so damn many of them.
After Ash had defeated their previous schel in coraig, one-on-one combat for the right to leadership, the young man had awakened the bones of their sleeping ancestors. As had been promised. Before she knew it, there had been a milling mass of skeletal warriors five or six times the number of living clan members.
Each time her eyes fell upon the skeletons, Frula searched for signs of her fallen family members. Lorthas was missing two fingers on his right hand while Hela had been killed by a spear through the heart, which would have left marks where it hadn’t broken her ribs. Sickness had taken their mother, so her bones would be impossible to identify. Father had been one of the most scarred warriors of the clan, honored with victory in countless battles. Though each of their scars had been as familiar to her as the axes at her sides, she’d seen no sign of them among the ocean of bones.
Semit radiated joy as he stood before the clan, drawing Frula’s eyes away from the skeletons. A true believer, the fool would have done anything for Ash and his army. Whispers of challenging Semit had recently become open conversations. Frula had ignored the whispered names of those worthy to challenge and replace him. The day before, the names had whittled down to one, and it was impossible to ignore.
Krave--her chosen.
He strode through a wall of sleek coal flesh, slaghounds parting around him and heeling at his signal. The day he had bested the pack’s alpha and taken the animals as his own had been the same day he had asked to share her soul.
“The bridge in Westerbrook is not fit for our army to cross,” Semit said. Like all Untamed, he was large. Not as tall as some or as muscular as others, but he moved with a wave’s curling grace and violence. Frula feared his madness had made him an even more formidable fighter. “We’ll go north. To the Grinder.”
“Right into the heart of the Ostelan,” Krave said. Leaving the slaghound pack, he slinked to the front of the clan beside Frula. Though his eyes never left Semit’s figure, his fingertips brushed hers before he crossed his arms to face their schel.
Many had been surprised when Frula accepted Krave’s proposal. Chaur’s gift was not as strong in Krave as it was in most warriors. Unlike other slaghound tamers who were as tall and sleek as their hounds, Krave’s topknot barely rose to her forehead. As the strongest of the females, one of Chaur’s most blessed, she could have picked anyone as her chosen. But Krave’s shorter stature seemed to have been packed with extra, tighter muscles, so that when he fought, he gathered speed and struck like lightning.
Though he spoke of the Ostelan with confidence, betraying no fear, Frula recognized a tension in his eyes. The Untamed feared few things, but the Ostelan topped that short list. They were the mountain tribe. Cannibals, rapists, and worse--they, more than the mountains, were the barrier between the Ashen Lands and the Radiance.
Other members of the tribe grumbled, and a few shouted their opposition.
“Challenge me,” Semit said, arms spread wide. “It won’t change our course.” His voice swept across the gathered clan, but his eyes held Krave’s, meeting the threat the younger man had become. “We use the slaghounds, drive the Ostelan demons deep into their caves. We were always going to face the Ostelan. Instead of facing them in the south, we can test our strength against the greater threat in the north.”
“And after we break through, we’ll be assaulting one of the greatest forces of Shields and Splinters in the Radiance,” Krave said. Warriors clanged their axes together and raised their voices in agreement.
“One might almost think you afraid,” Semit shouted. He’d always been able to raise his voice above any din, wielding it with as much skill as his axes.
“Not scared,” Krave said. “Nor stupid. The Scheltor has the master stone. Why doesn’t he teleport us directly into Core?”
“Who can understand such a mind?” Semit asked. “He orders. We obey. In his great wisdom, Ash, Scheltor of the Untamed, risked his own life to scout those southern defenses. They are stronger than those in the north.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “I must meet with the other schels and share this news. We will speak more at first light.”
“We speak now,” Krave said, intruding deeply upon Semit’s authority. He hefted his axe as if to throw it into the dirt at Semit’s feet. There could be no better time for the coraig, but Krave hesitated. It had been obvious to Frula for some time that Krave was waiting for something, but he’d yet to make his mind known to her.
Semit scoffed and jogged away, kicking up a cloud of dust and bits of ash in his wake.
The clan watched him go, muttering curses at his back but quickly began to set up camp for the night, grumbling all the while. Hide tents took only minutes to construct, and soon the smell of burning dung filled the air. Frula ventured deep into the rippling flesh of the slaghound pack to settle in for the night.
She and Krave slept beneath the sky, a privilege afforded to the tamer and his chosen. Surrounded by the body heat of the hounds, they would be warmer than any of their clanspeople in their tents, and like the smell of burning dung, the hounds’ musk had become familiar and comforting over time.
Krave’s eyes followed her as she threaded through the hounds. They welcomed her as Krave’s mate, but it felt to her like an uneasy alliance. A few angled their heads to be petted or scratched, but most of them panted, tongues lolling. At the moment, they hardly resembled the fearsome beasts they were.
Even without his means of communicating with the hounds, Krave understood subtle messages in every shift of a tail or curl of a lip. To her they were scribbles in the sand.
“If you would challenge Semit, do so,” Frula said, giving the nearest hound a scratch beneath its chin. “Do not tug on his tail and nip at his heels.”
Frula’s words were harsh, but Krave smiled to hear them. He grinned like one of his hounds, sharp teeth flashing in the day’s fading light. The oldest members of the pack surrounded him in a loose circle, and he tended their fur with a brush of soft grommel whiskers, giving each its turn.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“We’ll be at war soon,” he said. “Well and truly. If Semit fights at the fore as he should, he might fall or weaken.” As they so often did, the hounds barked, as if agreeing with his words. According to Krave, they usually were.
“Or he’ll win new glory and remind all why he became schel,” she said. When the oldest of the pack, Jugular, nipped Krave’s hand, Frula knew she had scored a point. Even if she couldn’t understand the hounds, they understood her. Krave had never explained whether they knew human speech or if he translated in some way. It was one of the tamer’s secrets he couldn’t divulge.
“The greatest glory will be mine,” he said, giving Jugular a smack on his flank. “I have dozens of claws and fangs.” That set most of the hounds growling and barking. The closest clan members turned their way in surprise.
“Unless you fall,” Frula said. She laid her hand on Krave’s shoulder, slowly tracing her way down his well-muscled arm until she held his hand in her own. “The Ostelan are savage but not stupid. Killing you would throw the pack into disarray.”
“I have spoken to the pack. They are prepared for my death.”
Was that shame she saw as he turned his face away?
“Meaning?” One of the burdens she had assumed in becoming Krave’s chosen was to watch him for signs of the changes which could overcome a tamer’s mind. In some way she did not fully understand, Krave spoke to the hounds, but doing so could threaten his sense of self. Tamers had been known to embrace the bestial side of their natures too fully, losing all sense of the human they had once been.
The oldest tales said the first lycanthropes had been tamers who had welcomed the animal within, changing them into monsters.
“It is between me and the pack,” he said, slipping free of her grip to brush the next hound in line. “Besides, if I fall, you carry my soul into a new age.”
There were secrets tamers swore never to reveal to others. Frula had known such was the case when they pledged themselves to each other, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating now.
She was silent as he conducted the nightly ritual, spending time with each of the eldest hounds. When he finished, they walked together to the supply train for a heavy bag of dried meat. Tails wagged as they returned to the pack. As one, the hounds sat on their haunches. It was an unsettling sight that Frula didn’t think she would ever get used to. Once the hounds had been attended to and she sat facing Krave on a bed of furs, Frula resumed their conversation.
“And if I fall?” She took a final bite of her own meat, then watched him around the bulge of a waterskin.
“I will become a beast and rip out the world’s throat.” It was an old jest between them, and one she had always hated, but Krave took only a few things seriously. His role as a tamer was one. She was another.
“Any regrets?” She knew what his answer would be, but it thrilled her to hear him say it.
“My only regret would be that none of my seed has yet taken root within you.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled, falling into his waiting arms. Around them the hounds were a shifting sea of dark flesh. A few forms rose above the others--hounds mating beneath the star speckled sky. Similarly, the night was full of the Untamed doing the same, making love behind the privacy of tent walls but not shy about the noises which escaped.
When their own love-making neared its climax, she startled to find him drawing her close even as she was pulling away.
“You would have me birth our child on the battlefield?” Frula asked. She had entertained such a possibility, but the prospect still worried her more than any impending battle. So far they had enjoyed their intimacy while taking what precautions they could.
“What better place?” Krave said. His eyes glowed in the moon’s light like a hound’s. “All of life is a battle against death. And you would make a fine Battlemother.”
“Then I see no harm in trying.” For the first time since the march had begun, they climaxed together and stayed interlaced. Sounds of sleep swept through the camp and of wind dusting the dry earth.
Second Dream
“How can you enjoy such dreams?” Lan asked. “They’re so mundane.”
A bandruí Light Bringer stood in a long hallway and reinfused a depleted wisp light only to have another empty at that moment. When she infused that light, another went dark. An andruí arrived at one of the spires with a batch of newly infused wisp stones only to find they cast no light. Then he entered an especially crowded chamber and realized he wasn’t wearing any clothes.
Lan backed away from that particular dream with hurried strokes of his arms and tail. As usual, Gailinn had no reservations about seeing others at their most intimate. She barked a gleeful noise, somewhere between shock and laughter, then softened her features almost immediately into a mother’s loving gaze.
“Don’t forget,” Gailinn said, “I’ve looked upon your dreams now and then. During a nap, you dreamed of taking a nap.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Lan grumbled beneath his breath. “As old as I am…” His speech devolved into a barely eligible series of throaty whispers.
Turning to the nearest group of bubbles at his back, Lan watched a Teleporter dream of traveling the entire world with a thought. Another was even more ambitious, dreaming of ways to travel the realm of magic without the portal stones. One even imagined leaving Severia behind and teleporting to new worlds out beyond the stars.
“Come and see this,” Gailinn called. She had moved some distance away.
In the latest set of dreams, druí Quenchers swam in pure lakes. Deserts drank torrents of water poured from their hands until forests grew, teaming with new life. Buildings had devices to carry and heat water without any need for magic.
“This is the new school of magic you mentioned?” Lan-tenth asked. “When they start writing books about…would you mind…?” He always grew timid when asking for favors.
“I’ll bring some new books to the island,” Gailinn promised. “By the way, I forgot to mention that during my interview with EchoingKnock, a trio of grocklins interrupted us. They had an unusual stone which they gave to the hob.”
Her eyes searched Lan’s until he felt as if she were reaching inside him with the power of that gaze. Too often when he lied to Gailinn, he did so with an expressionless face, one he’d perfected over the course of his too long life. By now, that lack of reaction was as telling as any number of facial tics at giving away his deceit. Therefore, Lan allowed a small measure of his great annoyance with the grocklin trio to seep into his words.
“Did you get a good look at it?” he asked. The stones were yet another of her convoluted plans. Creating them, she’d sacrificed her memory of the act. It pained him to keep the knowledge from her.
“No,” she said, frowning for the barest second. Then, with her usual good cheer, she said, “Oh well. Do you want to see the Tenders’ dreams?” She pointed to another collection of bubbles above their heads. In the physical realm, the druí slumbered in the Spire of Magic, neatly organized into their different disciplines across several floors of sleeping quarters. “You occasionally show up as a deity in some of their dreams. Or maybe those are nightmares.”
“I know you’re making fun of me,” Lan said, dismissing the indicated bubbles with a wave of his paw, “but it is a nightmare. My so-called ‘heroic deeds’ were born of frustration and were nothing grander than a tantrum. Besides, the Tenders always dream about vanquishing dark and twisted desires with weapons of pure light. That or they have nightmares where Unmaker’s fingers, literal fingers instead of that metaphorical rubbish, wrap around all the members of their congregation, turning them into monsters.”
With a shrug, Gailinn swam elegantly upward, propelling herself with gentle strokes and only the slightest kicking of her bare feet. Lan followed at a distance, reluctant to peer too closely at the dreams of the remaining druí. Perpetually bathed in white light, he nonetheless imagined the realm growing darker as he neared Gailinn who was already staring into the next bubbles, her mouth a hard line.
One Speaker had a nightmare where plants and animals called for help, screaming with voices only she heard. A young andruí feared becoming an animal, no longer understood by his own kind. Another wished for such a change. He sprouted wings and took to the sky then snuggled into a dreshen’s fur as if putting on a coat, forever after prancing about on four feet.
That last seemed a happy note to end on, so Lan braced himself and turned to the other side where Menders relived their greatest failures. Magic slipped from their fingers during the simplest of operations. Blood flowed from wounds, blinding and unending. The dead sat up from operating tables and cursed them.
“How can they stand it,” he asked. “How can you?”
“They’re only dreams,” Gailinn said, favoring him with a soft smile. Her eyes betrayed her, glistening with a pain she wouldn’t share, not even with him. “As you said not too long ago, they are fluid and easily forgotten.”
“Let’s hope I spoke the truth,” Lan said. He looked upwards where only a handful of dreams remained. “But for my own sake, because I will remember, I’ll not look upon the Balancers’ dreams.”
“I suspected as much,” Gailinn said.
The choice of words startled him, but Lan tried not to show any signs of alarm on his features–something he’d mastered as a youth, though he’d had little need for deception until recently. He might have grown rusty, but if Gailinn knew how he spent his time away from her in the realm of dreams, she’d have said something. But only if she disapproved. She must have had some idea that he was meddling despite her strict instructions to the contrary.
Why had those nut-brained fools given Knock the stone during his meeting with Gailinn? He had explicitly told them to approach him afterwards.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” Gailinn said, interrupting his thoughts. She floated upward, obviously in no hurry to view the Balancers’ dreams herself. A shudder ran through him from scalp to tail as he swam away, remembering the one time he’d seen those dreams.
Every single Balancer dreamed of lives taken. Of lives lost.
They knew only nightmares.