Child of a Dead God (7 page)
“Feed,” he commanded.
The two monks still functional leaped upon their living comrade.
Both made for his throat. The larger male slashed the smaller one’s face, driving him off, then wrapped straining fingers across the living monk’s face and pulled his jaw upward. A high-pitched scream filled the stone cell, muffled by the victim’s gag. The sound broke into chokes as the large male’s teeth sank into the squirming monk’s throat.
The smaller undead let out a pained yowl and hissed in frustration. Bobbing behind his larger companion, he tried to find an opening to get at the victim’s throat. He finally scurried in to sink his teeth through the robe into the young monk’s thigh. And beyond them, the female’s nails scraped on the stone floor as she tried to pull herself to the feast—and failed.
The smell of blood grew.
The two males had barely settled in, their “food” thrashing beneath them, when Welstiel’s shout rang through the cell.
“Enough . . . back away!”
Both males flinched as if struck. The smaller squirmed across the floor, clutching at the bed’s dangling covers. Blood was smeared all around his mouth.
The larger male pulled his mouth from the monk’s throat, swiveling his cowled head and turning maddened eyes upon Welstiel. His jaws widened threateningly, blood spilling out between fangs and elongated teeth.
Welstiel kicked him in the face. “Get back!”
The male’s head snapped sideways, and he backed over the mangled female to crouch against the wall. Chane felt an empathetic spasm as the male fought his own body’s demand to obey.
Welstiel reached down and seized the ankle of the “food.” The young monk’s head lolled with eyes rolling up, unaware, as Welstiel jerked him to the door.
Chane’s gaze lowered to the young woman still clawing at the floor. Her colorless eyes filled with panic as she watched the monk, once her comrade, slide farther beyond her reach.
“What of her?” Chane rasped.
“She is too far gone,” Welstiel answered. “Recovering her is a wasted effort.”
Chane fought to remain passive. Something in his mind told him not to speak, but it strained against his instincts.
“You said six risen among ten was fortunate,” he argued. “If you need them . . . enough to go through all of this . . . why forgo even one who requires extra effort?”
Welstiel returned him a suspicious side glance.
“Very well,” he answered and dropped the monk’s leg. “See to it yourself.”
Chane looked down at the half-conscious young monk. The memory of a book of poetry and a sheaf of notes nagged at him. He finally pulled his dagger, crouched and flipped the monk facedown, and gripped the man by the back of his bloodstained robe.
As he dragged the monk toward the maimed female, she reached up with clutching fingers, trying to grab hold. The large male beyond her took a step toward Chane.
“Stay back!” Welstiel shouted.
The robed hulk retreated with narrowing eyes.
Chane slashed the dagger deep across the monk’s throat and dropped him atop the female. He hurried out the cell door without glancing back.
Hunger roiled inside him, restless at the smell of blood and the warmth of it that had spilled over his hand. Another part of him almost cringed with loathing.
And finally he heard the door shut.
Welstiel slid the iron bars through the handle at the sounds of angry screeching growls and tearing cloth.
“Get more bindings for another of the living,” he said. “And be quick this time. I have other tasks to attend.”
Chane descended the stairs in slow steps, trying to empty his mind.
When he returned, he bound another living monk. The process repeated for the remaining undead who had not yet fed. And again, Welstiel allowed his new minions only a brief taste before snatching away their meal.
“There are not enough of the living to last,” Chane said. “Not enough to truly feed all your minions.”
“Yes,” Welstiel answered. “Their hunger continues . . . as does your nightly vigil.”
He walked away down the stairs.
Chane stood in the hallway, resentment mounting inside him. These newly risen undead were starving, and hunger unhinged their minds. But still Welstiel would not relent in this disquieting exercise. His newborns were becoming little more than beasts driven to feed. Was this the Feral Path that Welstiel had hinted at?
Was this what gnawed at Chane’s insides beneath the ecstasy of a true hunt?
He slumped upon the stool beside the stairwell. The passage grew quieter, filled with only discontented rumblings within the cells of the undead.
Chane’s gaze wandered to the passage’s far end and locked upon the book of poetry he had tossed away. Then his eyes settled upon the cell doors of the living.
Brot’ân’duivé wove through the coastal trees, troubled by what he had learned this evening. He needed to speak with Sgäilsheilleache’s grandfather, Gleannéohkân’thva—and there was only one way. Approaching a twisted maple, he withdrew a smooth oval of word-wood from his cloak and was once again grateful for it.
All the Anmaglâhk past their tutelage years carried a word-wood. With these oval slivers, grown from Most Aged Father’s own oak, they spoke with the patriarch through any tree growing in open earth. Such were reserved for the Anmaglâhk or those clan elders needing to communicate with Crijheäiche.
Masters of elven ships also possessed their own word-wood, allowing their clan vessels communication in case of need or emergency, but these were grown from the wood of their own ships.
The smooth oval Brot’ân’duivé held was neither of these.
Few carried or even knew of these special word-woods, for they were secretly fashioned by Gleannéohkân’thva and connected only to his tree dwelling. A revered healer among the an’Cróan, he was thereby also a Shaper—one of those born with the talent to guide and alter the way of living things.
Brot’ân’duivé placed the word-wood against the tree’s bark, calling out softly, “Gleannéohkân’thva, are you home?”
Moments passed before a clear voice rose in his thoughts.
Yes . . . but I did not expect to hear from you tonight
.
Yes . . . but I did not expect to hear from you tonight
.
“It could not be avoided.”
Hearing his old friend calmed Brot’ân’duivé as he thought of the eccentric old healer’s wry nature, deeply lined face, and steel-gray hair sticking out in all directions.
“Is Cuirin’nên’a with you?” he asked.
Yes . . . but what is wrong?
Brot’ân’duivé closed his eyes and planted his free hand against the maple.
“An unexpected development . . . which means our first step must be taken earlier than planned. Retrieve the first message stone I engraved and the shale plate etched with my drawings. Wrap and seal both so that they remain private. Give this package to the Äruin’nas in the name of the Anmaglâhk. They will pass it to the Séyilf, and one of those ‘Wind-Blown’ people will deliver it to the mountain of the Chein’âs, as intended.”
Why rush this little thing? Léshil returns home with his companions. We know where to find him when the time is better.
“No, Magiere takes them to an unknown destination. Fortunately, they travel south down our eastern seacoast, and I have encouraged Sgäilsheilleache to accompany them. I will instruct him to order the ship anchored at the correct location, so he might take Léshil . . . Léshiârelaohk . . . to the caves of the Chein’âs. Our first small step must be completed before he arrives there.”
You send Léshil himself to the Chein’âs . . . with my grandson as guide? Sgäilsheilleache knows nothing of our covert efforts or . . .
Before Brot’ân’duivé answered, a second voice rose in his mind.
We understand . . . and I thank you for my son’s welfare.
Cuirin’nên’a’s melodic voice filled his head. He remembered the face of Léshil’s mother—perfect caramel skin, corn-silk hair, and feathery eyebrows above large, brilliant eyes.
My son must be armed for his future purpose. We shall do as you ask.
Cuirin’nên’a paused too long, so Brot’ân’duivé drew their talk to a close. “I will join you both soon . . . I have much to tell, but I must stay until Léshil departs.”
I look forward to your return, Brot’ân’duivé.
He pulled the word-wood from the tree with a breath of relief. So far, he had successfully set events in motion, but he had one more task to complete before Léshil’s departure. He strode toward Ghoivne Ajhâjhe’s landward side, for this task required two wide strips of leather, loose wool, a needle, and waxed string. He knew where to find such items in the shops by the shore.
Most Aged Father waited within his massive oak at Crijheäiche—Origin-Heart. As the centermost community of what humans called the Elven Territories, it was also home to the Anmaglâhk caste. He was so old that even the clan elders of the an’Cróan no longer remembered where he had come from or why he had led his people into seclusion in this far corner of the world. And his massive oak was almost as ancient as he was.
One of the eldest trees of the forest, its hollowed heart-root chamber below the earth had been carefully nurtured by long-forgotten Shapers since its earliest days. He rested within a bower shaped from the dark root’s living wood, so the oak, with its roots threading out beneath the forest, might sustain him to fulfill his people’s future need.
Most Aged Father no longer walked among his people. His withered body clung to life only by the great forest’s efforts. But he was still founder and leader of the Anmaglâhk.
“May I bring you tea?”
Most Aged Father peered through milky eyes at his new attendant.
Juan’yâre—Ode of the Hare—stood patiently in the heart-root’s entrance, awaiting a response. His expression, as always, was a mask of polite servitude, but Most Aged Father had difficulty adjusting to this recent change.
His last attendant, Fréthfâre—Watcher of the Woods—had been with him for more than two decades. He cherished the daughterly love in her eyes when she looked at him. She never saw him as withered and decayed; she saw only his wisdom and devotion to their people.
Fréthfâre was also his formal Covârleasa—Trusted Adviser—but she had suffered serious injury, a sword thrust through her side by the half-dead abomination, Magiere. Though healers worked to restore her, Most Aged Father was told that a full recovery would be slow in coming—if it came at all.
He missed her, and though he loved all the children of his caste, he could never see Juan’yâre taking Fréthfâre’s place as attendant, let alone Covârleasa.
Juan’yâre’s eyes held little warmth but shone with abject loyalty in an average and unmemorable face. At present, only his loyalty was required. He had completed his full training with high recommendations from his teacher and had served in the caste for nearly thirty years. His small-boned stature and boyish features made him appear younger.
“No,” Most Aged Father finally answered. “We will not require tea. Once this audience concludes, you will prepare to leave for—”
Another voice carried from the outer chamber. “Father, I am here.”
Most Aged Father forgot his new attendant. “Come in, Hkuan’duv, you are expected and most welcome.”
Juan’yâre’s face washed with awe, and he quickly stepped aside for the visitor.
Hkuan’duv entered and threw back his hood, giving no note to the attendant’s presence. He inclined his head to Most Aged Father.
“Well met, Father,” he said, his voice toneless as always.
Hkuan’duv—the Blackened Sea—was one of the four remaining Greimasg’äh still alive, a self-made master who had stepped beyond the worldly skills of the Anmaglâhk. He so rarely returned to Crijheäiche, preferring solitary tasks abroad, that Most Aged Father had not seen his face in three years. He was a stark sight of medium height, wiry build, and leathery tan skin. Born to a seafaring clan, he still followed their customs and cropped his hair short where other Anmaglâhk let theirs grow long. But it had lost any trace of blond long ago and glowed in shocking white spikes. His eyes were narrow-shaped and a shade of amber so deep they appeared topaz.
“You called for me?” he asked, typically direct.
Most Aged Father gestured Juan’yâre toward a teal cushion on the floor. “Sit quietly and listen. What you hear is never to be repeated . . . unless instructed by me.”
Juan’yâre bowed and dropped gracefully, crossed-legged, upon the cushion.
Hkuan’duv stood silently poised, awaiting instructions.
Most Aged Father wasted no more time. “You have heard of what happened here regarding Cuirin’nên’a’s son and the intruder named Magiere?”
Hkuan’duv nodded once with no change of expression.
“The council of clan elders arranged a ship to take them down the coast,” Most Aged Father continued bitterly. “I wish you to gather a small band and follow them, unseen from a distance. Another ship has been arranged for you.”
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