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

Gruesome and Erliga. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead shuddered and closed her full lips. A question loomed in the depths of her blue eyes. Tarac thought of the tortured soul he’d seen and tried to reach out to her. The earth hurtled toward him and everything went black.

Chapter 28

 

His master could barely walk. He was so heavy, and Pjodarr was not a strong man. As soon as they were out of sight of the others, he pulled the helm off the dwarf’s head and dropped it on the ground. He was used to Blade’s ravaged face after so many years, but not like this. There was life in his right eye. His bearded mouth gaped open as he struggled for breath.

“Where are we?” his master croaked.

“Shhh, Master, don’t speak.”

“So tired. Are we in battle?”

“No, Master.”

“Then get this armor off me.” He pulled at one of his gauntlets and it clattered to the ground. Pjodarr sat him by a tree and began unstrapping the plate that covered the great dwarf. The back plate came off with Tremble still hooked to it. Blade grasped for the handle, and sighed in relief when he gripped it. He looked around as the shaman continued removing the armor. “I don’t know these trees. Where’s my tower?”

“Master, what do you remember?”

“Fire. And ash.” His wide shoulders slumped. “So tired.”

The old slave choked, but did not try to stop his tears. “Sleep, Master. Please, sleep.” The dwarf nodded and his head dropped. His eye closed. Pjodarr’s stomach tightened until he saw the rise and fall of his master’s chest. He finished taking off the plate armor, then buried his face in his arms and wept. He whispered a prayer to Fjur.

When he’d composed himself, he went back to the fire. Gruesome and Erliga stood in their same spots. The girl had her arms wrapped around her body. Pjodarr did not meet their gazes. He rummaged through a pack until he found a small blanket. As he left he saw that Tarac slept while Folik stood over him. He ripped off strips of the old blanket on his way back to the sleeping dwarf. The slave gently wrapped them around the left side of his master’s head. He was careful to leave his right eye, nose and mouth uncovered. The great general did not stir.

Once satisfied his master’s scars were sufficiently concealed, he gathered up the armor and returned it to the camp. When he had all settled, he bowed his head to the havtrol and slave girl.

“He sleeps for now.”

“Pjodarr,” Gruesome held up a hand. “What happened here? What happened to them?” He pointed to the boy.

The shaman shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He looked at the sky. “The sun will rise soon. I suggest you all try to get a little more sleep.” He bowed to Gruesome again. “I am sorry, but we may be delayed from your quest yet again.”

The warrior nodded. “All is well, shaman. Care for your master.”

Pjodarr returned to the dwarf’s side. He knelt beside him and waited.

Fjur’s morning eye sat high above them before his master lifted his head. He stretched his thick arms and groaned. The slave sat silent. Blade yawned and coughed, and Pjodarr offered him the water skin again.

He drank and leaned his head against the tree. “Did we fight ice giants?”

“No, Master.”

“Then why do I feel like they’ve been beating on me?”

“I don’t know, Master.”

The dwarf grunted and coughed, then drank again. “By the gods my throat hurts.” He shook his head and looked around. “I’ve had such a dream…,” he trailed off as his right eye cleared. He lifted a hand to the left side of his face. “What is this, am I injured?”

“Not anymore, Master.”

The red-rimmed eye settled on Pjodarr’s face. “Bodr’s beard, boy, what happened to ye? Ye look so old.”

The shaman smiled sadly. “You’ve missed so much, Master. Where have you been?”

Blade stared into the distance. His hand began to shake. “I remember drums. And the voices of my fathers. They called me to them.” He shook his head. “Where are we, boy?”

“The Sudmark, Master.”

“What in Drogu’s ass is the Sudmark?” He shivered and grunted again. “I feel like my bones are all cracked. Help me up, boy, and make a fire.”

“We have a fire, Master. Come, there are others with us.”

Blade grumbled. “If we have a fire, why am I sitting here in the cold? Fool boy.” He groaned as he rose to his feet. “Or fool old man, whatever ye be now.”

“I am a great-grandfather three times over now, Master.”

He grasped his master’s arm and led him toward the fire. “I am sorry, but I did not want the others to see your scars. And forgive the lack of a fire. My mind was not focused.”

The others watched with rapt attention as they entered the camp. Even the girl was wide-eyed as they approached. Gruesome promptly stood and bowed to the dwarf. Tarac sat with a blanket wrapped around him, sipping at a steaming bowl. He gave them a small smile.

“My master wakes,” Pjodarr announced in norovid. “But he still needs to gather his strength.”

“Why do ye speak the human tongue, boy?”

The shaman waved to the priest and Erliga. “They do not speak dvarid. I would not want to insult your guests.”

Blade grunted. “As this is not my tower, they are not my guests.” He spoke the words in norovid, and Tarac blushed. The dwarf settled himself by the fire and reached his hands to it. Pjodarr saw a pot of broth and poured some for his master. He took it and sipped. “Is there no meat in this place?”

The old slave chuckled. “We have some dried wyvern, if you want.”

“I’m not starving yet, boy.” He cast his eye around the fire. Upon seeing the havtrol, he bowed his head. “Chief Gruesome, ‘tis good to see ye again. I’d rise and bow, but this is neither my land nor ye own.”

The big warrior was taken aback. “My general, we have traveled together for some time now. At least five seasons.”

Pjodarr held his breath while Blade took in the havtrol’s words. He stared ahead. “We have fought together? We have fought havtrols.”

Gruesome nodded. “You help me hunt the Honorless in this land.”

The dwarf took a long sip. “Ye fell to the rage then? I am sorry to hear that. I know ye honor is strong, though.”

“Thank you, general.”

Blade took in the others. He gave Tarac a long look. “I know ye, boy. I don’t know ye name, but I know ye.”

“Yes, good dwarf, I think you would.”

The dwarf motioned to Folik and Erliga. “Who are these?”

Erliga looked up at the shaman. Pjodarr nodded to her. “My name is Erliga, my lord. I am-,” she stammered. “You saved me from-,” her head bowed. “You all saved my life.”

“Hmm,” the general grunted then swallowed. “Well, I reckon ye are welcome then. Do ye belong to one of these?” He waved at Tarac and Folik.

“No, my lord,” her head stayed down, like a dutiful slave. “I belong to Lord Ranagol.”

“I don’t know him.” He looked at Pjodarr. “Should I know him?”

The old shaman shrugged. “Not really, Master.”

“Fine then. Don’t call me ‘Lord’; Blade is my first title, ye may call me that.”

“Yes, Lord Blade.”

“It’s just ‘Blade’, my dear. There’s no need to use two of his titles.”

“Blade,” she said, as if testing the word. She was clearly not used to a dwarf’s bluntness. Pjodarr worried how his master would react to the priest.

“What’s ye name, lad?” He pointed a thick finger at Folik.

Tarac rose gently to his feet. “He is Folik, my guardian.”

“And ye?”

The young man took a deep breath. “I am Tarac, High Priest of Drogu, and Shepherd of the Souls of Durum Tai.”

Blade cursed and spat, then threw his bowl on the ground. He put a sharp eye on Pjodarr. “Is that where we are, boy? Are we by that gods-forsaken city? Why in Mobin’s name would ye bring me here?”

Tarac was quicker than the old man. “Good dwarf! I will not have you disparaging my home. The city of Durum Tai is an important part of the Bergmark, and has certainly not been forsaken by the gods!”

“Easy, son,” Pjodarr raised a hand to ease the boy. “He means no harm. Do you, Master?”

“That remains to be seen, shaman.” He gave the boy his full attention. “I’m not sure how it is, but I know ye, lad. I know the very heart of ye.”

The priest immediately lost his reserve. “That will be difficult to explain.”

Pjodarr stared at the boy. “You did this, Tarac?” He shook his head. “How did you do this?”

The young man sighed and lowered himself to the ground. “I did, good shaman. I do not know how to tell you.”

Blade held up his hand. “Not now, boy. I am tired, and my bones ache. I’d have more sleep.”

“Of course, Master. We still have a journey ahead of us. You must get your rest.”

The dwarf settled himself and lay down. “When I wake, ye can tell me about this ‘journey’.”

They all watched as the dwarf promptly drifted off to sleep. Pjodarr grinned. It was just like his master. In and out like the winter wind. The shaman’s heart almost burst to think of him back to his old self.

Chapter 29

 

Gruesome would have been impatient if the reason for their delay had been any one but the glorious general. The dwarf commanded much respect. Blade slept most of the day. The young priest looked like he was sick, but his spirits were up. The boy had shown his honor when he confronted the havtrol about calling him a necromancer. He had been right, after all. Gruesome only knew the rumors of Durum Tai, how could he judge their people? He knew what humans said about havtrols.

Raising the dead did not sit well with him, but the boy said it was done to honor them. That confused the warrior. His people burned their honored dead on a pyre. They sent their souls and bodies to the gods. Dwarves carved the likenesses of their cherished ones in stone or gold, like they might forget their faces. The freemen of the Mark had no end of rituals for the dead. They might burn them and build a statue of them. So why not turn their hero’s bones into a puppet for their highest office?

They spent the day in relative quiet. Pjodarr stayed by his master’s side. The girl stole glances at the priest, who tried his best to avoid looking at her. Gruesome was unsure if this was some form of human courtship or not. Most men were more aggressive in the presence of one such as Erliga. He assumed from the shaman’s words that she was a consort for her lord.

Blade awoke as night began to fall. Pjodarr gave him plenty of water, more broth and some of the wyvern meat to chew.

“Now, boy,” the dwarf said as he tossed aside the last bit of meat. “Ye have much to tell me.”

“It seems I do, Master.” Pjodarr gestured at the rest of them. “Do