(USFB): Ten: Chasing Ghosts

Razien sat beside Greshalin’s wagon that night, the day’s experience hardly breaking his composure. Gresh tried to press her paws to the rope burns that snaked through his fur, a steam of ice against the warm air building and fading as he denied the aid each time. He was sullen and irritated, but only in seeing the inside of that tomb twice in so short a spell. Orathone could not reason how the wolf hadn’t gone mad in his first trip below the earth, let alone a second while in bondage.

A question lay heavy on the buck’s mind; however, he wasn’t certain he should put forth any recollection from within the temporary grave. If nothing else, the mood fixed on the wolf said enough that he wouldn’t care to talk of daydreams from the crypt. However, he had invited Orathone to join him and Greshalin for a time that night. There was little if no indication of the purpose of the invitation, yet, the buck wouldn’t turn down the offer. Not only did he feel slightly more at ease about the two, who seemed disconnected from the larger culture of the Easterners, but Orathone had questions for the lynx.

“What are we going to do about Yerra Imfay?” Gresh asked before Orathone could turn thoughts into words.

Dully he fumbled his fingers across the horns that had never come in, “There’s not much to be done. He is who so many of our people followed out of the west when the invaders came. Yerra Maxinimus was the only one trusted more than Imfay, and he was turned to the vile blood.”

“Where does that leave you, though? You’re not without use, and even as I loathe saying so, people follow power more than powerful words. Couldn’t you overtake him without unnecessary violence and take his place?” the lynx met a curious gaze from the wolf at that. She shrugged at Razien before clamping icy fingers around inflamed rope marks. Orathone thought on the notion a moment before his better judgment vanquished the crude concept. There wasn’t much he could think to do that would remove Imfay from the situation without creating a firestorm among the rest of the Western forces.

Regardless of what he might think of the Yerra, Orathone couldn’t help but note that, in his presence, everyone, even Eastern natives, fell in line. He didn’t find Imfay so entirely affable, though he found his irritation deescalated when talking to the man directly. No sooner than they were apart, Orathone found he again bristled at the man’s actions and choices. Litheiuss has been of a similar temperament, almost forgetful of the issues he took with Imfay once in person, only to find himself irritated again days later. There simply wasn’t any way he could remove the Yerra without incident. There wouldn’t be enough support to turn on him to make a difference.

As Greshalin finished soothing Razien’s wounds, Orathone returned to his question, “How long have you been able to do that?”

“Most of my life,” Gresh remarked, casual as though it were a skill anyone might have. Orathone couldn’t begin to understand the simplicity she approached the idea with. Though it had been several cycles since he found himself capable of moving roots, to have been capable of it most of his life, even at a younger age as the lynx, seemed absurd. He thought he might impart his own experience, but the woman was locked in thought.

As though she spoke only to herself, Greshalin began, “The voice, her voice, came to me when we were fishing in the Spring of my sixth cycle. Uncle had crossed the river to cut open the ice to get into the water. He stood right in the middle of the Aern and chopped away divot after divot until he had a rough square chipped out. Before he could breach the surface, the sheet of ice laid across the current gave way. I was playing with Cherie, his favorite myter, but when I heard the ice shift and crack, I knew something was wrong.”

“I turned and saw just his arms up in the air as the current ripped him under with the panes of ice that broke free. Everything downstream of where he was started flowing like Summer had come just that afternoon. The panes of ice that swarmed him were sharp but insubstantial. He couldn’t have used one to float, especially without worrying about cutting himself open. I didn’t know what to do. I screamed. I started bawling and reaching out for him from the shore as I ran after him, Cherie chasing after me like she knew it was too dangerous for me. She bumped into me, and I tumbled halfway into the stream, not far enough for the current to take me, but I felt the grip of that icy water. I shrieked once more, not for myself but for uncle, and then it was like all the air left me, and that gentle voice told me everything would be fine.”

“A voice? What voice?” Orathone had only just barely listened along, initially catching on the thought of a disembodied speaker, becoming more engrossed as she mentioned it once more.

Greshalin’s gaze took on a hollow cast, “Oh, yes. It was like the voice of my mother, I believe. But it’s been a long time since that day or since I saw her last.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“My mother?” Gresh looked to Razien as though even he might field the question.

Razien moved to interrupt, but the deer launched in, “The voice. I have had a voice come to me. It’s the first thing I remember since my amnesia. She called herself Casseda vur’Verillia.”

The two fell into a thoughtful quiet, their expressions telling little of what occupied their minds. Orathone thought to apologize, seeing he might have scandalized the lynx or even made himself appear half mad. Words vibrated in the buck’s throat, but he couldn’t make them pass his lips as he faced the gazes of his hosts. After a time, the wolf leaned close, “You’d do well to ask among the foxes in Seras.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Goddess, they called her so, as she graced the lands with light. Sirian Delsama. She spoke of the hands that forged this world by such a name,” Razien no longer met Orathone’s gaze, perhaps out of shame or uncertainty if such information should have been kept guarded. There was, however, nothing more to follow with for any party in the conversation. They again grew silent as the moon carried on in its course across the sky until it was dim enough to turn in. Orathone excused himself, but before he was more than a few paces away, he found himself accompanied by one of his fellows.

The elder buck clasped Orathone on the shoulder and fell into step with his more leisurely pace. At first, he didn’t say a word, only moved with him toward their shared cabin. However, the ambiance, the crowing of nightbirds and insects and amphibians, broke with a languid stream of words. As though it were wholly expected, Litheiuss remarked, “Word around says Imfay isn’t quite taken with you.”

“I could say the same of you, except he would say you’ve gone native.”

“Ah, and perhaps I have. These folk, savages as they might be said of, are quite alright. They lack some of our refinement, but for that lack, there is a capriciousness that we lack back home,” the remark only spurred Orathone to question what would have been done with Razien and himself at home.

Dismissing animosity for the day’s shame, Orathone began a new route, “Would you care to spar? I hear you’ve done little more than train since you arrived.”

“Blades are away for the night, orders of Jaium, but we might duel in the cabin.”

It sounded as though it would be a cramped match with much broken furniture; however, so much practice depended on open air, and Orathone knew he would need more skill with the blade. When the Legion came crashing down on the east, his powers would serve him well, but not completely. The bow had been a reasonable supplementary tool but had its limitations. The rapier was Litheiuss’ choice blade, though when facing the lions, he would take the more versatile broadsword. His suggestion was to keep with the former as the latter might embolden him, and indeed, there was no cause to try Orathone with a greatsword. His mentor missed the heavy iron, lost in a boggy battleground cycles prior.

Back in the cabin, Orathone waited on Litheiuss as he returned to the armory to pluck two practice swords. There was, of course, the relic plucked from one of the turncoats among those deer that still had access to the Yerra Maxinimus’ hoard. The Silver Talon had been a spoil of war from when the Legion took the capital of Okyna. Those advisors that turned on their blood-stricken lord were rewarded, only to be put against their own in the wild. However, such a rare piece, dating generations back, closer to when they had departed the Divide than current times, was no practice sword. The door clattered open, turning Orathone’s thoughts from the rapier in the chest to his mentors’ return.

Coming around the corner from the entrance was not that familiar buck but a wolf with a growing familiarity with Orathone. Razien inspected the man before stepping past his chair and seating himself on the trunk containing the Silver Talon. The wolf continued to weigh the man out as he sat, his expression indifferent if not unreadable. Attempting to be a good host, despite being the guest in the man’s homeland, he stood to offer his chair. The offer was not taken, and Razien remained his stare no softer for the action.

Litheiuss returned in a sudden and silent approach enough to give Orathone a start though Razien appeared hardly surprised. The veteran’s eyes went from his protege to the wolf who nearly blended with the dull wood of the interior, his fur so coppery and still muddled with dirt. At the revelation they were not alone, Litheiuss turned his mind quickly, “It was these two, they’ve developed a few chips, but they could become major cracks if we don’t repair them.”

“Lith, I think he’s alright. You don’t mind us sparring in here, do you?”

Razien nodded, “I am not near enough to sleep to care.”

Litheiuss moved stiffly to hand off the other rapier before sliding back Orathone’s chair. The younger buck slid the table away until they had a reasonable space to spar without much incident. Though shattering furniture, especially that which wasn’t their own, had taken the foremost of their concern, the two now wondered if the wolf would not be in the way. A wayward strike wouldn’t kill, these practice blades being dull enough, but a strike across the muzzle might be sufficient to throw the man into a rage. Taking Razien into account, the two moved further and further from the sitting area to the hall until one dodge saw Orathone crashing into the corner of the wall.

He shook off the impact, though his head was spinning even as Litheiuss offered a paw up. As wisps danced around his mind, Orathone recalled the comment Razien had made beside the wagon, and his curiosity returned to the subject of foxes and the hidden voice. Rubbing the sore bud of an antler, he asked, “What did you mean earlier? You mentioned the foxes and something about a goddess. Is this some sort of legend in your lands?”

“May as well be legend enough. There are plenty who might speak to her being real, but the proof is little. My father would talk you from Summer to next Winter if you asked him. What do you want to know?”

“What’s the importance of the woman?”

“Well, some, like my father, believed her to be the incarnate of the light itself. She could beam the light of day from her body and banish dark to corners of the world. That’s what she went to do, last they saw her.”

“When was that?” Litheiuss added curiously.

Razien eyed the two of them, “I would have been only a cub. They say she’ll return, but you ask Jaium what they all think. Her charge was a rouge, and she had chased him into the countryside. Mishonrayel was aided by a fugitive, a black puma. Sirian was accompanied by Greshalin’s aunt, but she has not been seen since either.”

“Puma? Like some of those northern men in camp?”

“Yes, except he was a shade darker than night, as they say of him, a killer too. From far afield, up north, have streamed stories of him. They said he came from the colonies or was a privateer out there. He burnt one of the port cities to the water. I’d say he left no one alive, but someone had to tell the tale.”

Orathone collapsed into the chair pressed against the wall, “He’s alive. I don’t know how to explain it to you, but that man is alive. And if he is so cruel as you say, I don’t know if this fox you spoke is anymore.