The Chosen, Kris Kramer [reading e books .TXT] 📗

“Gruesome,” the shaman said calmly. “Please sit. I’m sure young Tarac here means us no harm. Or else why break bread with us? Why save Master Blade from those…things?” He heard the wisdom of Pjodarr’s words, but this necromancer…

He gritted his teeth and choked down his bitter disgust, and slowly lowered himself to his haunches. The undead abomination relaxed slightly, but stood even closer to its master. The necromancer stood still, eyes to the ground.

“Please, Tarac, sit. I’m sure we can all be reasonable here, now can’t we?”

“Of course,” the boy’s voice was barely a whisper. He returned to his seat, his head down and back straight. He gripped his staff tightly.

“Thank you, by the way, for saving my master. I have no idea what we would have done.” Tarac raised his head to look at the shaman and gave him a meek smile. “Which raises more questions. What were those things, and what did you do to them?”

“Hmm,” the necromancer thought. “Well, while I’ve never seen them before today, they reminded me of the little creatures from the legends. Kriote…soul scavengers. I saw them feeding on some of the dead here, so I’m sure that’s what they were. Why they attacked your friend-“

“Master,” Pjodarr corrected him.

“Hmm?”

“He is my master, I am his servant. It would be improper for you to call him my friend to others.”

“Oh, yes, sorry. We do not have slaves in Durum Tai.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Now what do you mean by legends? And soul scavengers?”

“Well, the legends of the Hungry Gods, of course.” Gruesome and Pjodarr stared at him, confused. “You do not know the legends of the Hungry Gods?” They both shook their heads. “I see. Well, long ago the Hungry Gods came from the depths of hell to steal-”

Pjodarr interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “Tarac, Tarac, hold on. Let’s do one thing at a time here. Tell us about the soul scavengers first. What are they?”

The necromancer shrugged. “Just that. They are soul scavengers. They feed on the dead as their souls make the journey to the other side.”

What skin was visible on the shaman’s face went pale. “Why would they attack my master?”

Tarac shrugged again and stared at Blade for a moment. “That is a mystery to me as well. According to the legends, if they find a fresh corpse, they can drain the soul from it like that!” He snapped his fingers. “But nothing in the tales told of them attacking the living. That’s why I had to help your frie-…master.”

“Yes, that. What did you do to them?”

The conjuror beamed. “Quite clever, if I do say so myself. I did not even know if it would work!” He leaned forward with eager eyes. Gruesome found himself crouching forward as well. “I made an aura of my own energy, and shaped it into a soul. A strong soul. Once they surrounded me, I lifted it above their heads, just out of reach to hold them in place.” He spread his palms to the sky. “Then I killed them.” He leaned back. “Mindless beasts do not take precedence over living souls. So, I was obligated to save the good dwarf.”

The shaman gaped at the young man. “Amazing.”

“Oh, not really. High Priest Brodjak has done much more amazing things. He is incredibly old and wise.”

“Why are you here, Tarac?” The shaman’s words came out with deliberate slowness. The younger man’s face turned red and he averted his eyes from the slave’s.

“Destiny, good shaman. Why are any of us here?”

Chapter 8

The old man watched the full moon through the trees. Fjur’s night eye was high overhead, but Pjodarr knew sleep would not come to any of them tonight. The havtrol stared at the Folik creature with open disgust, his clawed hands never far from the hammer and axe at his sides. If the dead man made a move toward them, the shaman had no doubt it would be just a pile of bones again before it took two steps. Gruesome was stronger and faster than any being he’d seen in his long years. Well, long years for a human. He was a fraction of his master’s age and still twenty years the junior of the Beartooth warrior, but he felt every bit of his sixty-plus years.

He turned his attention to Master Blade, the quiet statue standing just inside the fire’s light. The dwarf’s one eye stared blankly ahead. What hell did I put you in, Master? The shaman thought of the kriote things and how Tarac had said they only attacked the dead. His master ate, drank, bled; why did they think him dead? Guilt crushed Pjodarr’s heart. Had he taken his oath too far? He missed his master, even though he hadn’t left his side in seventeen years.

He moved his thoughts from the dwarf. Only sadness grew there. But the boy…

The old slave eyed Tarac carefully. The necromancer hadn’t said a word in hours now. None of them had. The tension was thicker than flies on a dung heap, but what could be done? Gruesome’s honor would not allow him to simply murder the boy unless Tarac attacked them first. Pjodarr had no idea what the boy and his pet were capable of, and he had no intention of attacking them without knowing their abilities.

Tarac was young, unsure of himself. He had difficulty making eye contact and was afraid of unknowingly insulting Gruesome and Blade, yet he trafficked with the dead. Did he not think robbing graves upset anybody? Pjodarr knew nothing of Durum Tai and its people, save the stories told around fires at night. Any outsiders that sought the city out were skinned alive and raised from the dead to work the salt mines. The only evidence that the city existed were the caravans that brought their precious salt and the bitter winterberry wine loved by dwarves. No one dared travel to the city of the dead.

Still, the necromancer seemed polite enough, and Pjodarr certainly didn’t want Tarac suspecting he’d spent the past few hours thinking of ways to kill him. So, he figured he might as well make the boy feel more comfortable.

“You said you were a high priest, Tarac?”

The young man looked shocked that one of them spoke to him. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’. I am only the servant of my master.” Tarac nodded with a small smile. “I asked because I wonder if all high priests are as young as you. You can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

“I just turned eighteen this year, good shaman. But no, it takes a long time for most to rise to the rank of High Priest. There are only twelve of us. I am considered a special case.”

“Aren’t we all,” Pjodarr gave the young man his most affable smile. To his satisfaction, Tarac returned it. “You are eighteen, so you were born in the year of the Century Star?”

“Yes, on the last night of its passing. The priests took it as a sign. I was raised to be a High Priest, taught everything about our people. I learned our entire history, from the time of the prophet Mephraim to High Priest Hyrgdaal, who discovered the power of the blood. I am practiced in all of our magic, not just soul-walking.” The necromancer talked as if Pjodarr had any idea of what he spoke. The old man decided to let him continue rambling and save his questions for later. “When I turned fifteen, I was raised to the rank of High Priest when good Dorid passed into Drogu’s arms. As customary, I walked him to the other side. It was my first time to do so.” Tarac stared into the fire. “I was so nervous, but he helped show me the way. Such a kind man; I’ll never forget his soul. It was beautiful.” A sad smile spread across his face; then he shook his head and looked at Pjodarr.

“Tarac,” the shaman said softly as he looked into the man’s eyes. They were wide and green. “Tell me about Folik.” Gruesome shifted in his seat, but Pjodarr held the necromancer’s gaze. “Ease an old man’s mind.”

“I am sorry; I know you people are not used to our guardians. But he is such a part of me that I forget how upsetting he might be to those that do not understand.” He took a deep breath then smiled again. “I raised him when I was eight, the youngest to ever do so. It was a test, to see if I might truly be the prophet reborn.” Another question for later. “Folik was a mighty Bloodguard. I remembered his story well from reading it a few years earlier. He was a true hero.” Tarac looked at the dead man with unmasked awe. “A group of children were picking winterberries in the vineyard, and Folik was there watching over them. One of them was his son, Dravel.” He turned back to the old man, his young face solemn. “Three trolls ran at them from the forest. Folik called for the children to run back to the city and threw himself between them and the monsters. How he fought off three full-grown trolls, no one knows. But when the other Bloodguards arrived, good Folik lay dead along with two of the trolls. They killed the last and carried Folik’s body back to the temple. The whole city celebrated him as a hero, and he was immediately named a future guardian. When it came time for me to choose, his was the only name that passed my lips.” He bowed his head. “I only hope to honor his mortal remains as his soul deserves.”

Pjodarr stared at him. “You mean you dug him up because he was your hero?” Gruesome grunted in disgust.

“What? No!” Tarac looked aghast. “What do you mean ‘dug up’?”

“Where did you get his body?”

“At his death, his body was embalmed and placed in the vault!”

“And what about his family?” The shaman felt his anger rise. “Why did they not get to see him to his final resting place?”

“Why would they go against his wishes?”

Pjodarr shook his head. “He wished to be-,” he waved his hand at the corpse standing by Tarac’s side. “-this?”

“Of course, all Bloodguard do!” The necromancer was incredulous. “It is the goal of all Bloodguard to become a guardian for a High Priest. It is a great honor for them and their family. That is why it is only given to those who perform extraordinary feats.”

“This is a reward?” Gruesome was shocked. Pjodarr was almost as shocked to hear the havtrol speak.

“Of course. It was only in the War of the Free that the priests raised the dead to fight the dwarves. Then it was proclaimed that only High Priests could raise a guardian, and they could only raise those that gave their remains willingly. It is custom to wait several decades to raise them.” Tarac raised a finger as if he talked to children. “Some souls linger longer than others, and we do not want to take any chances.”

The old slave sat in disbelief. The boy spoke as if this were completely normal. As if they should all have been aware of the rules for raising the dead. In the face of such madness what could you do?

Pjodarr laughed. He laughed heartily, such as he had not in seventeen years. He did not care if Gruesome and Tarac stared at