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

wizard was odd. She knew he stole glances at her, knew what they meant. Then there was the havtrol. He wasn’t like the ones that killed everybody. He had the bearing of a great man, and not the savage eyes of those others. But he was so huge. Did the rest really trust him? And the other man, the armored one. He was like the dwarf, completely silent.

And they had just left him behind when they started off. Just got on the big wolves and left him there without a word. What kind of men were these? None of them had touched her since the shaman healed her, even given her privacy to change again. But how long would that last? Were they waiting for her to get her strength back? Maybe they wanted her clean. They all seemed more like the men of her lord’s court than a roaming band of brigands, but what else would they be doing out here?

The old man, Pjodarr he called himself, he knew her lord’s crest and name. He’d asked her after she woke if her master had died to the havtrols. She said nothing, but did not lie. She had just shaken her head. He asked her where they were going, why they were in Brinnoch Forest. She answered nothing else, though. What was she supposed to tell them?

Now the shaman escorted them through the trees while he followed some red bead. The wizard made it float in the air. Erliga had no idea where they were going. They were fond of not talking in front of her and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She was usually ignored by men until they were done talking. She didn’t know what these men had planned for her. They didn’t seem to want to kill her. If she said nothing, maybe they would tire of her sooner than later.

 

~~~~~

 

They made camp early that day, even with the late start. Tarac thought Pjodarr was keeping a slower pace for the girl’s sake. She hadn’t said anything since she told them her name the night before. The shaman knew her master was a man named Ranagol. He was apparently the lord of something called the Sky Palace. Poor girl. It was an awful thing she witnessed. Tarac had seen more than enough of the scene while he looked for clothes. They had decided to not bury any of the dead. Pjodarr said they would tell someone what happened.

He felt so sad. They had left so many dead behind in the last two days. His life with the priests had not really prepared him for all of this. He thanked Drogu for Folik. His guardian was a great source of strength. All Tarac had to do was think of the hero, and his own courage was fortified.

He looked at Erliga. She sat staring at the fire. She had cleaned her face more and pulled her hair back. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin was smooth and clear of any blemishes, her hair long and a darker blonde than his. She had full lips and a thin neck that begged him to look lower. He closed his eyes and lowered his face. How dare he have such thoughts about a victim of such unspeakable cruelty? And he didn’t necessarily mean the Honorless.

Her eyes. They were the most intriguing aspect of her. Deep blue, but something in them made the fire dance. The sadness in them did nothing to lessen her beauty; rather it gave her a depth that he felt could only be bridged by kindness and respect. He so wanted to see her smile.

Tarac chastised himself and apologized to Drogu. He was a High Priest, and should be above such base thoughts. She was a soul to be cherished, not flesh to be coveted.

He returned his thoughts to his new friends. At least he felt they might truly become friends. Mighty Gruesome had only kind words for him after their discussion last night. And Pjodarr had so many questions about his life in Durum Tai and his abilities. The young priest’s heart swelled with pride. He believed he was representing his people well and had found his purpose here in the south. What happened in those villages was not natural, of that he was sure. He felt confident that Gruesome, Pjodarr and the dwarf would help him seek the truth of the events.

The dwarf filled his mind for not the first time that day. The shaman said his body was strong, but Blade neither spoke nor slept. Tarac had never heard of such a condition. Pjodarr was a healer of flesh, but perhaps the good dwarf needed a healer of souls…

He waited until they all lay down to sleep. He needed time to perform the ritual. He crossed his arms over his chest and began the process of slowing his heart. He took long, deep breaths and focused all of his will. Entering the world between worlds required all of his concentration, and he had to block out all sounds and smells around him. He pooled all of his thoughts into a single essence, like a lone star shining in the night. He moved toward it. Everything around his body lost all meaning, and he no longer felt his arms or legs. The star grew brighter. It rushed toward him, white light filling every part of his being.

He stood in the darkness of the world between worlds. Tarac felt completely himself. There was no awkwardness of the flesh. Here, he was confident, sure of what he was. But he had to be careful. The souls around him were fully alive, and what he saw here could not be unseen.

He drew himself together and strengthened his will. This was a dangerous place, not meant for travelers. He could get lost here, and his soul might never find its way to the other side if he did. He felt the other souls around him, but had no idea which might be Blade’s. He focused on one. It was not like turning his head, more like pulling something into view.

It was Erliga! The form of a naked woman, glowing white stood before him. Her face was that of the girl’s, but scarred. In fact, black scars marred the purity of her soul across her entire body. He knew that if he wanted he could brush the marks from her. All he had to do was reach out…

Her eyes flashed at him. Red eyes, full of anger and hate. He pushed the whole of her away.

He felt another presence and drew it into focus. Gruesome, the mighty warrior. A great, red bear slept before him. It was massive, and bound by chains of thick iron. Huge muscles flexed and strained the shackles. Tarac pushed himself back. He dared not try to touch the rage-filled warrior.

He floated toward another, massive soul. A large oak formed, with leaves of flame. The roots sank deep beneath it and the trunk pulsed as if the tree breathed. The priest marveled at the shaman’s soul. He had never felt one so powerful, so certain of purpose. The shaman was life. With every bit of his being, Pjodarr displayed the very essence of his god. Tarac wanted nothing more than to rush to the shelter of the shaman’s limbs. He knew the bark would be warm and soft.

He steeled himself and let himself drift away. The next soul would have taken his breath away if he had it in this place. A small ball of light stood before him. Stretching from it, from all sides were strands of pure white. He made out the faint outline of a squat man around the ball. The dwarf’s soul was being pulled apart. How did this happen? Blade could barely be considered alive. Is this why the kriotes attacked him? Did they mistake the dwarf for a dying man? Tarac could see why.

He studied the man’s soul. What the other priests would give to see this! Nothing of this sort had ever been discussed among them. But there had to be something he could do. If he was truly Mephraim reborn, he would find a way to repair the dwarf. He would give him back to the shaman.

He reached forward. He needed to be delicate. Despite the appearance, this was still a living soul. He needed to bring it back to itself, not change it. It was easy to affect souls here, and doing so changed the fiber of the person. Such a thing was forbidden to the priests. Their place was not to judge, but to shepherd.

He touched one of the strands. The dwarf’s soul flowed into him. He placed a wall between himself and it. He could not have the dwarf changing him either. He pulled the strand, fitting it around the ball of light. It was an arduous task, like rewinding a ball of yarn while putting the pieces of a puzzle together. He had to place it exactly as it was before Blade came to this. Time had no meaning in this place, so he had no idea how long each strand took him. As he progressed, the outline became bolder. It was a dwarf, with strong features. The eyes were sharp, the bearing regal. The skin was not the texture of flesh, but stone rather. Running through the stone were veins of deep power. Something unnatural coursed through the dwarf. It was old and embedded. It was a part of him now.

The stone figure’s eyes narrowed at him. The dwarf knew what he was doing! He gently pushed a sense of patience at the soul. Blade looked around at the rest of his being. Tiny strands still stretched out to forever. The general nodded at him. Tarac focused on the strands. At some point, the stone dwarf began to help. He took the strands from the priest and pressed them to his chest. Blade’s spirit was strong. Like the shaman’s, it was solid, complete. These two never doubted their places in the world. Soon, the dwarf was able to pull himself together alone. Tarac found it difficult to let go. It was comforting to be so close, but he drew himself away.

Something pressed into him, another presence. He touched it, tentatively.

A great cloud rushed into him. The face of a bearded man, contorted in pain, appeared to him. The eyes were pained, almost manic, and they peered into the bottom of him. Fear threatened to break him apart. Never had a soul invaded him like this. The man’s mouth opened, like a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole.

COME TO ME!

Tarac drew his own spirit to itself. With much strain, he solidified himself. He pushed the being away. It scratched and clawed at him. He raised a barrier between them and shoved with all the focus he could muster. He reached for his body, out of this realm. It was like swimming through molasses.

The priest awoke with a gasp. His senses were flooded. The smell of ash from the fire, the crispness of winter air filled his nose. Loud voices roared in his ears as someone yelled, the words made no sense to him. Tarac struggled to rise to his feet. Folik grasped his arm and helped him.

Blade was on the ground, coughing and sputtering. Pjodarr was at his master’s side, screaming in dvarid. The young man could not make out the words. Gruesome stood tensed, as if ready to attack. Erliga was on her feet staring at the dwarf and shaman; her eyes were full of fear. Slowly, things began to make sense to the priest.

“Master!” the old slave screamed. “What…wrong…hurt?”

Finally, Blade calmed his shaman with a hand. “Water…need…water…” His voice was hoarse, the words broken.

The havtrol was quick; he grabbed a water skin and threw it to the pair. Pjodarr held it to his master’s lips and the dwarf drank. He drank as one deprived. When he finished his hands fumbled with his helm.

“…take…helm…”

“No, Master,” the shaman grasped the thick fingers. “Come…will help…” He pulled the dwarf to his feet and led him away from the fire.

Tarac shivered. He had sweat profusely, and now the cold air surrounded him. His muscles were sore, as if he’d strained them. He looked at