Vedek

Vedek pulled the cloth around his face tighter. It was coarse and smelled of various fluids, but it was better than having his face out in the open. He wished he could do the same for his eyes.

Paranoia is a nasty thing, and Vedek was pushing himself deeper into it. He got lucky with coming up with a name as quickly as he did. So long as Bréag could get out of this situation without people probing deeper into his identity, he was secure. That meant pulling himself away from anyone far too interested in him being an elden.

His limbs still felt like they were full of sand and facing the sun made him feel dizzy enough to collapse. Looking to the others he had escaped with, he felt jealous that they were not so taken with the drug. Even after hundreds of centuries, the Elden had yet to develop any resistances to the toxins of their adopted realm.

The other four --Rerume, Frost, Azeroth, and Lyr-- they had all stopped at the edge of the ruins. Connecting the pillars was a thick strip of adobe bricks raised just above the desert floor. This led into a plaza that dipped downward at a slight curve. Over time this divot had collected windblown dirt and dust that buried much of the cracked stone tiles. The geodesic sphere sat at the east end of the plaza and from it ebbed a series of pillars and arches, all at exact intervals and all least as tall as it. How they connected it was hard to say. Each of the pillars leaned towards the center of the plaza, reminding Vedek too much of exposed ribs. Had they once held up a ceiling? That seemed inconceivable, the Teotl were master architects, but they had not been giants.

The scope of decaying history took Vedek’s breath away. His homeland had ruins, but none as broken and lifeless as this. Only Frost shared his wonder at the sight, gaping and craning his head in grand sweeping motions. For Lyr, Azeroth, and Rerume, this seemed pedestrian to them.

“Let the elf look for the last cart. His eyes are better than ours.” Lyr had been talking to Rerume about where to start looking. The third cart couldn’t be far from where the others had parked, especially if the response to their escape had been so swift.

Lyr’s comment put attention back on Vedek, causing him to wince beneath his mask. It was true that his eyes were better than most lensed scopes, but he didn’t want to be leaving an impression on these people.

Still, he would oblige to move this along. There was no wind today, so markings left by the barbatus would still be visible on the dry dirt blown into the plaza. The bricks near the sphere had been removed, but not many, just enough to allow a wheeled vehicle easier access to the center. From that entry point, Vedek could make out two sets of wheel ruts leading to a free standing arch set before the sphere. The right half of the arch had toppled, obscuring whatever may be behind it.

Vedek indicated that that would be the first place to start looking. The three warriors of their group took the lead as they cautiously approached. Frost brought his nose low and remarked that he could smell the lingering scent of the barbatus.

“And what does that smell like?” Azeroth asked.

“A bit like caked dirt and stinging citrus, but also a slight hint of something sweet and flowery. It smelled strongest when they were grouped together.” He dropped to his hands to inhale deeper from the dusty floor. “Yes. Their scent is strong here, not just from today, but from days passed. They visit here frequently. Why though?”

“Salvage.” Rerume answered. He gestured along the length of the plaza. What Vedek had mistaken for shards of rubble embedded in the mounds of dirt was actually the remains of an ancient battle. Armor and weapons remained, as did the discarded bones on their owners. “This place has been a grave for a long time, most Teotl sights are. Cut stone is a luxury for those willing to cart it away. So people arm themselves and defend their claim, perhaps they believe there are other secrets buried here. Either way, the ruin soon becomes a battlefield until being abandoned all over again. Second-hand scavengers come for what remain of the dead.”

“There is nothing wrong with scavenging. My people find it a necessity.” Frost looked thoughtfully to the buried weapons.

“I’m sure your people do.” Rerume responded.

Frost said nothing to this. He broke from the group to inspect the quality of an ax sticking out of the loose dirt. He was not bothered by the skeletal hand still clutching the weapon and brushed it off like a cobweb found in the rafters. Vedek was almost inclined to root for a weapon himself, anything to protect himself with, but his restraint held. He had not fallen to grave robbing yet.

The collapsed section of the arch was a foot taller than Vedek. It had been carved with geometric designs that were stiff and jagged, not like the flowing etchings of the Fae. His ears twitched at the sound of foreign voices. People were speaking Dustspeak on the other side. They were not keeping themselves quiet, like those bound in carts should be. Informed of this, Lyr called out to those on the other side. What he said, Vedek did not know. He could speak and read New Quetzal, the primary language of Athshin, but this rural language was never brought up in his studies.

Slowly, a man and girl peeked out from the rubble. Based on resemblance, Vedek assumed they were father and daughter. Both were armed, but only the father seemed to know how to properly hold his sword. Their relief was palpable and hurriedly ushered the group to follow them to the other side of the wreckage. Here, blood stained the stone. This small strip of shade was the site of a desperate battle resulting in three dead (two barbatus, one coatlmade) and a human struggling to survive the grievous gash on his chest.

When Lyr asked if they had freed themselves the father shook his head and pointed to a thin coatlmade concealing himself behind the cart.

“I’m glad one of us was able to break free.” Lyr said to the coatlmade. Cheer in his voice sounded alien. “This is the ally I told you of, Trub. Short for Trouble.”

Trub’s smile was small and sheepish. He was a man in constant motion. Constantly shifting his fingers, arms, and eyes. If Vedek had a coin purse, he’d be hiding it. His voice was weak and pitched. “The ants never s-searched me. I-I had my razor tucked in my sleeve. I th-hought there was only one guard left. I snuck up on it and…you know.”

Not too far from this site was a fourth cart. This one was smaller and half-loaded with salvaged weapons. A dead barbatus lay nearby, the back of it’s head cut open like a scored loaf.

“-But there were others s-sifting through the dust. I cut th-these people free, and we put up a good fight you know, but…”

He looked nervously to the dead and the wounded villager. He was a pot-bellied man sweating and gasping from the pain. Vedek grimaced. Perhaps in different circumstances they could bandage the wound, but at a glance Vedek could tell it was too deep for that temporary measure.

Rerume stooped to the man and laid his thumb across his throat.

“Death comes for you. No point in fighting it.” Rerume spoke in a low growl.

The man must have understood Rerume to some extent for he began desperately clawing at Rerume with his weakened hands. He talked fast, babbling in a begging tone Vedek did not understand.

“He, uh, doesn’t want to die.” Lyr translated.

“Then he is ignorant to the state he’s in. His life is fading. Her angels know his location.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“What makes you so certain? He can be saved if we move quickly.” Frost approached the wounded man, but froze when Rerume threw up a hand demanding he stop.

“I am a servant of the Vulture Mother. It is my duty to know death.”

That remark brought silence from the group. Only the dying man continued to talk, continued begging to be saved. Vedek was regarding Rerume in a new light. Funeral rites are necessity, so servants to the Divine of Death were common enough, but they were still a mysterious folk that kept to themselves no matter the culture. Where Vedek was from the goddess took the persona of Lady Blue Jay.

“Ask him if he wants to expire of his own volition, or if he wants it hastened. I will perform the rites regardless.”

Lyr bit his lip and muttered to the wounded man. The man’s eyes grew wide and he looked to Rerume with terror, but he finally stopped speaking. The father and daughter turned away, understanding what was about to happen. Trub approached the others.

“Perhaps best if we relocate, yeah? Kind of a p-private moment, and death makes me squeamish.”

They left Rerume and the dying man there. Vedek did not know what was ultimately chosen, but he could hear Rerume speaking the rite of death in an ancient language. They waited on the other side of the arch until the act was completed. On top of the sphere, Vedek could see the dark shape of a vulture roosting. It let out a hissing cry.

“Dirk and Lyn will be waiting for us at Devil’s Rest.” Trub made idle conversation to Lyr.

“Will they?” Lyr scratched his chin. “I’m sorry, all this has left me a bit foggy.”

“Dirk wouldn’t let us-s abandon these people.” Trub pointed to the villagers. The father was sheltering his girl while looking warily at Azeroth. Azeroth didn’t notice. His head was cocked in the direction of Rerume. He seemed patient. Expectant.

“No, Dirk wouldn’t.” Lyr concurred. He looked past the villagers to Vedek’s group. “Luckily, we’ve figured out a method for commanding the saurians. I think if you and I take the front cart, we can lead them all to Devil’s Rest and let Dirk decide our course.”

“I like this plan. There will be safety in numbers.” Frost injected himself to the conversation. He had to, to distract from what was occurring on the other side of the fallen arch. “This ‘Dirk’ he is an honorable man? I would like to speak with him.”

“He’s the n-noblest person I know.” Trub said solemnly. His earlier nervousness was waning. He seemed comfortable to speak with a wecher.

“Why do you talk like that?” Frost asked. He refereed to how Trub strained his speech on certain words. It wasn’t quite a stutter as Vedek knew it, but Vedek knew better than to bluntly ask someone that.

Trub blanched. What comfort he had with Frost vanished. “S-some Coatlmade are more s-serpent than human. My t-ongue is thick and my cheeks thin. Eas-sier to speak New Quetzal.”

Their conversation ended when Rerume rounded the corner. His right hand was damp with fresh blood.

“I have performed my duty. We can move on from this place.”

And move on they did. Vedek did not need to spend so long bonding with the saurian now that he knew how to command them. Admittedly he had only as much personal experience with saurians as he did with any aspect of Athshinian culture, which is to say only a month, but beasts of burden operate on similar patterns no matter their make.

Vedek demonstrated to the others the command for “go” by touching the left side of the saurian where the head met the neck. “Stop” was the small area between the nubbish horns. The saurians performed each command quickly and without protest. The scars on their backs told Vedek just how the Barbatus made their beasts so obedient.

With the extra two carts, they reconvened at the edge of the ruins. Vedek was baffled by what he heard when they drew close: Singing. Cole was performing for the villagers from Scratch. The villagers did not know the words, but were taken with his spirited voice, which echoed all the confidence of a seasoned diva.

“Oh. He sings too.” Azeroth grunted blithely.

Cole’s song petered out when he saw the group approach, but his smile didn’t vanish. “Were you successful? Must admit everything seemed calm from where I was standing.”

“We rescued who we could. Two perished beyond our control.” Rerume said. His tone was cold, which he justified by adding: “Losses were inevitable, this is Athshin. Be grateful that so much life endured otherwise.”

That took Cole’s smile. Rather than give himself to this genuine emotion, the boy quickly set it aside for another smile, though this one was small and brittle. “Fair enough. ‘Land of the West/Land of Death.’ What’s our next step? Found a colony of our own on this ancient sight?”

Trub chuckled at this remark. “I think it’s forbidden to settle anywhere near th-the works of the Old Tyrants. More than th-that we know where we’re g-going.”

They continued talking, explaining their destination to Cole and what their steps from there would be, at least, Vedek assumed that’s what they talked of. He was feeling strange. It was as if he were some chunk of the ruins that set the backdrop for this discussion. Deaf. Inanimate. Unimportant. A wrecked remnant of something greater. The words of his fellows turned to fuzz in his ears as the gravity of his situation laid it’s full brunt on his mind and heart.

He had been a king. A king of the oldest and mightiest kingdom in Domhanda. Now he was dressed in ragged clothes set to walk to he-didn’t-know-where. What he managed to escape Fae’Riam with, his grandfather’s bow, the signet ring meant to find him allies in Athshin, gold to live in comfort, books to remind him of home, the scarf his aunt made, and countless other mementos smuggled out in so many packs. All gone. The bandits had taken it all. Did they even know the significance of what they took, or had they just seen a shiny bauble worth that month’s drinking money?

He had a panicked thought of one of those thieves actually appraising their spoils, tracing it back to the royal family of Fae’Riam. The treasure exchanges hands, as does the story of where it was taken, eventually finding its way back to Myth’Socraithe where his brother would claim it with a wicked smile before dispatching an assassin to that area.

He was defenseless. Set at the same tier of wealth and influence as these dusty villagers who looked to him with curiosity and wonder. He may as well be naked for as stripped as he felt. He had fallen from the throne and landed in foreign, infertile soil.

He dwelled on this long after they left the Teotl ruin. His silent contemplation made him numb to all interaction outside of basic input. He was aware he was commanding the second cart in their convoy. The men he had broken free with were packed behind him.

At one point the boy, Cole, had questioned Vedek of his origins, his “story,” but Vedek mutely kept his pace. After conceding that he would get no answers, the boy started singing again. He had a good voice, if a bit hoarse from the conditions, and he sang in perfect Sylvan. Vedek knew the song, The Slaying of Dragon Queen Mutarae. Vedek’s great-uncle had been the one to do the slaying. Hearing it was enough to snap Vedek from his haze and take in his surroundings. Under his breath, he began to sing along.

The Middle Confederacy of Athshin was known for the empty deserts where one could find little but sagebrush, rock, and cactus. Towns, cities, and villages were clustered far from each other. This vast emptiness was a far cry from the lush and spirited wilds of Fae’Riam, but Vedek supposed many things about his situation were a far cry from Fae’Riam.

“-So you are an amarok!” Cole exclaimed. He was speaking to the wecher.

Frost patted his bicep with a proud grin. “Born of the wolves, pine, and snow. I’m on my ‘lone hunt.’ A journey to discover myself. My land is ice and stone. I’ve long heard of a world to the west made of fire and dust. I wanted to know what that was like. I walked barefoot from Anchorome to reach here.”

“And have you ‘Discovered’ yourself yet?” Azeroth sat with his lanky arms hanging over sides of the cart.

Traveling with an orc. That was another surreal aspect of Vedek’s predicament. Orcs were…discouraged from traveling deep into the heart of Fae’Riam and certainly never made it as far as Myth’Socraithe. Vedek couldn’t name any orcs he personally knew.

Vedek tuned the conversation out again. The cart ahead of them was led by Trub. Lyr sat at the front of the cart, but his eyes were focused to what was behind him. Gears turned behind his blank stare. Like Vedek, he lost in thought, but Vedek did not appreciate how Lyr’s attention stayed on him and the others in the second cart.

Lyr’s stupor was broken by Trub anxiously tapping his shoulder. Devil’s Rest, their destination, was on the horizon. A thumb-shaped tower of stone jutted out of the flat desert. In the wanning light it had the appearance of being caked with dried blood. On that hill of rock was an unmistakable temple. Around the base of the stone were houses, small to be sure, but an unmistakable sign of civilization.

Behind Vedek, Cole whooped with wild joy at the sight. “Oh please let there be a reservoir of stiff drinks in one of those shacks!”

This bold outburst was taken poorly by the villagers they were transporting, who were more relieved to be in safety’s sight than yearning for a celebration as a capstone to their day. After all he’d been through, Vedek couldn’t help but agree with their tired and still fearful expressions.