Nightfall enveloped Kiyla in a blanket of chilled darkness. The country lane east of Edgewood diminished to a single trail, one that could have been made by deer or wolves. Uncertainty mounted as to whether she was still heading toward the Cerion Forest or diverted by a miscue many miles back. She squinted into the shroud of starlight, then slowed the mare to a trot. Moments later, as details continued to disappear into the night, she stopped and pulled an oil lamp from her pack to light the path.
The journey plodded along under meager lamplight, and her thoughts turned to Elric. Though the concept of resurrecting a dead body sent a tremor through her, Kiyla retained the hope that he would be returned to her. To them all, of course, but mostly to her. She needed him—it mattered not what anyone thought of that—and for more than a compatible sparring partner. Thus far, Elric had been the only man to view her as more than a tool, a means to his end. He had supported her cause, vouched for her, and insisted that she be a part of the Dragonslayers. He had been the only one to breathe new life into her bleak existence. Then he had been taken, her sole blessing ripped from her hands.
Now, with her meandering pace through this barren, backwater country, her mind darkened with the falling night. The Maker had failed her. Dragon-bloods didn’t kill Elric; his gifted armor killed him in a twist of cruelty. The Maker could have stopped that—he should have stopped it. He should have protected Elric—someone who fought without regard for himself.
Kiyla wiped her eyes of frigid tears. Her mind stirred with angry thoughts, but a single ray of hope continued to beam through. Elric was going to live again. He had to.
The night dragged on, and Kiyla’s lamp began to sputter. After warming her hands on the heated metal encasement, she refilled the reservoir, relit the wick, and sallied forth. Endless open countryside, unfenced and untamed, filled the horizon. Tall grasses and brambles brushed and scraped her legs, but she could only hear the scraping; her legs had lost feeling long ago.
She marked time and distance with the refilling of her lamp, and on the fifth replenishment, the fuel was gone. Bone-weary and famished, Kiyla slumped in the saddle, borne along by the steady plodding of her mount.
A looming silhouette of leafless branches jumped from the shadows, but Kiyla was too exhausted to gasp. The tree line of the Cerion Forest towered as she approached, blocking the semi-occluded stars. Shifting trees, shimmerkin, mangroos—the forest conceived of innumerable ways to consume a lost soul. Her only hope was to be spotted by the mystics and pray they didn’t kill her outright.
Exhaustion blanketed her and threatened to pull her from the saddle. Weariness clung to her like a mighty leaden weight, bowing her back and sagging her shoulders. Ever faithful, the russet mare trudged on as if its only purpose was to deliver this sad sack of a rider through these trees. With a final gasp, the lamp sputtered its last, plunging Kiyla into utter darkness and the wilds of the Cerion. But she was too cold and tired to care.
***********************
Kiyla’s eyes flew open. Aches suppressed inside a sleeping mind washed over her in merciless waves. All was dark around her; she was lost and alone. Only a dim light slipped beneath a door nearby. I’m inside… The ceiling overhead had been plastered by someone who had neither time nor talent. …a shack. She threw off the blanket and sprang to her feet with balled fists at the ready. Her legs buckled from muscles stiff and road weary. Wincing, she willed herself to stand. They can’t keep me here.
She scanned her cramped room for an escape. Two curtained windows, too small to climb through, showed only darkness outside. Where am I? Where’s my horse? What happened?
As if her thoughts had been spoken aloud, a pleasant voice spoke in soothing tones from beyond the door, the timbre clearly aged. “Mornin’. I trust you slept well?” The door pushed open to reveal an elderly man carrying a plain brass candlestick. “You’re safe in my home. Your horse practically dragged you here, but don’t worry; she’s stabled on a warm bed of straw. That’s a good horse, that one.”
“Who’re you?” Kiyla barked, clenching her fists tighter. Old or not, he was a threat until proven otherwise.
“My name is Rustin. And you?”
“Kiyla. You a hermit?”
The man chuckled. “Some might think me so. I’m a retired reeve of the Cerion.”
“Reeve, huh? Do ya know Moffe?”
“Moffet Stattalonn…yes, I know him. He aspires to be a great warden, but he has a lot to learn.”
“Do ya know Elric?”
Rustin stepped forward and held the candle closer to Kiyla’s face. The flame warmed her skin. He bore the weight of many years and the scars of many hostilities. A severity of concern shrouded his eyes as he studied Kiyla. “Do you?”
“Of course I know him,” Kiyla said with a snort, but the question gave her pause.
Rustin set the candlestick down on a side table. He lifted a long-stemmed pipe from his cloak and stuck it between his teeth. A single flickerstick followed, which he swiped across the table and touched to his pipe. He puffed away until the aromatic pipeweed cast an orange glow about his face. “It seems this fellow has created quite a stir in the forest.”
Kiyla’s breath caught as hope swelled her heart. “He’s alive?”
Rustin exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Hmm…why would you ask that?”
Kiyla sat back on the cot, her gaze focused on nothing particular. “It must be that day…Ossa-somethin’…”
“Odhasaim?”
“That’s it.”
“Odhasaim is still a couple of days away.”
Kiyla tugged at her braid and squinted at the ceiling. “I thought…” Something didn’t add up. “Did they raise him or not? Where is he?”
“Likely somewhere you’ll never find. But it won’t be hard to get a message to those who know, and we can arrange for a meeting place tomorrow.”
“Nope. Gotta be today. I gotta get back.”
Rustin chuckled, and puffs of aromatic smoke shot from his mouth. “But you just arrived.”
“You don’t understand. Walkin’ undead. Invisible archers. A whole village is dyin’. We need Elric.” The years-old urge to fight beat against Kiyla’s breast. Immediate action was required. How could a retired reeve know the stakes?
“We’ll go in due time. For now, you need to rest.”
“Ain’t got time for that.” Kiyla stood again, forcing her muscles to respond despite the angry stabs of pain. She hadn’t felt this worn out since she went the full five rounds with The Revenant in the Muckraker pit.
Rustin shook his head and sighed with patient pity. “The forest will swallow you alive, lass. You have no idea where to go, and—”
“I made it here.”
The reeve raised an eyebrow. “Where is ‘here’? How’d you get here? Do you think I had nothing to do with that? Perhaps you’d like to brave the shimmerkin and mangroos alone? Are you so certain the trees will even let you pass?”
She was caged, trapped in an iron pit with multiple opponents, and she fighting solo. No escape, no exits, no holds barred. With an angry growl, she pounded a fist into the wall. “Cripe!”
A small shelf dislodged on one side and spilled a wooden box and a clay cup to the ground. The cup shattered.
Kiyla stared at the shards. Somehow it represented her life. Everything she touched ended up broken. Weariness washed over her, or was it a profound sadness? She could not be certain. Both body and soul ached, and that stupid cup embodied it all.
“Sorry,” she said at last, then returned to her cot. “I’ll buy it.”
“No need,” Rustin said. “It’s just a cup. But I think there’s more going on than that. Perhaps you’d like to discuss it. I might be able to help.”
Kiyla fell back and closed her eyes. She had no energy and even less desire to talk to a stranger about her life. “How long was I out?”
“Five, maybe six hours.”
“How’d you find me?”
“You might say it’s my calling,” Rustin said. “Even in my later years, I still look after this forest. I have many friends who keep me informed, and when—”
“Like Moffe’s hawk?”
“Yes. And when a lone traveler straggles in late at night, I see to it they are kept safe. Or left to die.”
Kiyla’s eyelids were leaden. She couldn’t afford to waste time sleeping, but this was just as much a losing battle as fighting the Cerion Forest. A yawn enveloped her face. “How long before we leave?”
Rustin stood and grabbed the candlestick. “I’ll wake you at first light.” He left the room, taking the light with him.
Gray light filtered through the windows when Kiyla awoke to a tap on her shoulder. “Come,” Rustin said. “It’s time.”
Wrapped in a thick, fur-lined coat, the reeve led her beneath a canopy of towering treetops and wintry skies. Like foamy ocean waves, the rippled clouds hung low and heavy with the threat of additional snow.
Her mare appeared rested far more than Kiyla felt. She yawned repeatedly throughout the morning and silently cursed the saddle beneath her. The open trail was one thing; traveling through rough forest tested both her strength and balance. She winced at every brook and cursed each low-hanging branch. But they plodded on without a break.
It was nearly mid-day when Rustin brought their travels to a merciful halt. “Rest here,” he said. “We are close, and only I can go further. Don’t try to follow me.”
With a skill of a master woodsman, Rustin built a small fire near a boulder in a few short minutes. He tied off his horse, nodded to Kiyla, and disappeared into the forest.
Kiyla had no intention of moving one more inch than necessary. Her legs had screamed in protest with her horse’s every step. Two more days in this saddle—her body frozen yet again through the relentless cold, her aching bones rattling with every gallop—recalled those gut-weary, bloody days in the pit with seven or eight scheduled bouts. A day of rest ain’t so bad.
The campfire beckoned her, and she dismounted. Attempts to stretch out the stiffness failed with frustrating consistency. She gave up and sat on the boulder. Warmth flooded her body, relieving tension and relaxing both body and soul. Her mind now freed from nagging pains, she drifted to the transcendent.
“Maker?” Kiyla’s eyes glazed as she stared into the dancing flames. Nothing was in focus, including her thoughts, which had lately been a bowl of scrambled eggs. “You there?”
She pulled a short stick from the snowy ground and snapped off a piece. The sound died in the muted trees. She tossed the fragment into the fire. “A lot’s ridin’ on this. I yelled at you. For good reason.”
She snapped another piece and threw it with force. “You took Elric! You coulda took anyone…but you took him. The only one who cares. The only one who matters.”
A lone tear brimmed on an eyelid, but Kiyla hardened against the emotion, the only recourse she knew better than fighting. “I ain’t ever believed much in you. You dealt me a rotten rinkin life. You got one chance to prove yourself. If Elric’s dead, then you’re dead. And that’s that. But if you bring him back, I’ll…”
I’ll what? Kiyla broke another piece for the fire. Believe? It wouldn’t be that easy. “You took my father, my mother, and my sister. You gave me a horrible childhood. I fought for my rinkin food. I ain’t knocked up ‘cause I beat every man who tried. Where were you, Maker? I finally have someone, and you take him…”
Another tear brimmed. She let this one fall. “How am I supposed to believe?” She threw the remaining stick into the fire. “Who am I even talkin’ to?”
The forest fell into silence, as if it knew Kiyla needed to be alone. A gentle snow fluttered down, light and airy, and the wind held its breath. The brawler, broken and weary, covered her face and quietly added hot tears to the snow.
Minutes later, the snort of a horse brought Kiyla’s head up. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. Voices broke through the quiet snowfall. Kiyla sat up straight, her gloved hands curling into fists. Tree limbs parted to reveal Rustin on horseback with his arms around a short, stocky man sitting forward in the saddle. She squinted at him, not daring to hope. The blue eyes looked familiar, but the face was all wrong.
“Hiya, Kiyla!” the stocky man called. The voice was right.
“Elric?” Try as she might, Kiyla could not quell the pounding in her chest.
“Yep! I done come back to life!”
The toughened shell cracked. “Elric!” The hard stony dam burst, and tears flowed freely as she rushed across the clearing, pain and stiffness be hanged. She skidded to a stop beside the horse. “You’re alive!” She grabbed him about the waist and pulled.
Elric grunted a weak “Ki—” as he toppled over.
But Kiyla yanked him free of the saddle and clutched him in a tight embrace, twirling about as Elric’s feet traced circles through the top layer of snow. Incoherent cries of joy poured from her lips. She did need him, and for more than a mere sparring partner.
She held him briefly at arm’s length. “I thought I lost you.” She pulled him in and squeezed. And I don’t care who knows.
Elric winced. “Ow…careful, Ki. I ain’t fully healed up yet.”
“What?” Kiyla paused in her exuberance.
“I’m all wobbly inna legs like a new colt.”
As if the claim required immediate proof, Kiyla let him go.
Elric folded like a wet towel onto the snowy ground. “Told ya.”
Rustin chuckled. “I can see you two have a lot of catching up to do, and he needs much rest. You’re welcome to stay in my cabin.”
Kiyla pulled Elric off the ground and embraced him with more care. Rest was a luxury she could not repeat. If she delayed, Cora and the others might fall into greater danger. “How much time does he need?”
“A couple of days would do him well.”
Kiyla nodded. “That’s how long it takes to get back.”
Rustin shook his head. “I meant two days of rest, preferably in a bed. By himself.”
“I’ll do all the work,” Kiyla replied with a roll of her eyes. “He’s just gotta sit there. Right, Elric?”
Elric smiled at the old warden. “I reckon she can take care o’ me. I got a job to do, an’ I cain’t be sittin’ ‘round gettin’ fat an’ happy.”
The warden shrugged. “I figured as much. I was just like you once. Well, let me offload your gear and send you on your way.”
Elric clapped Kiyla on the shoulder. “Thanks fer comin’ to get me.”
“I left everyone in Elinwyche,” Kiyla said.
“Rustin says y’all are fixin’a dig up Ordin’s bones. Creepy as all get out, if ya ask me, but I reckon the Maker knows what he’s doin’.”
Kiyla studied him, ignoring his words. The accent and cadence of his voice was familiar, but something in his manner was different. His appearance certainly was. “You changed.”
Elric grinned. “Death’ll do that to a guy.”
“But your face…where’s your mustache?”
“It got burnt up, Ki. Ever’thang did. I’m alive, but I ain’t the same. Took me three years to grow that ‘stache, an’ now I gotta start over. An’ my skin’s jis awful, all wrinkly an’ leathery, like I was part dragon myself.”
Kiyla raised an eyebrow.
“Which I ain’t,” Elric said, grinning. “Them Vashanti done said so. It’s all jis ugly scars…all over ever’thang.”
Rustin pulled a leather strap tight across the saddle pack on Kiyla’s mare. “That should hold. I wish you would stay, but I’ve never seen either patience or wisdom in the youth or a freeblade, and you’re both. So, may Nature’s Maker bless your journey.”
Kiyla held the warden’s gaze. The Maker…
The old warden smiled warmly. “The Maker does take care of his own. And he provides for those in need. Don’t lose faith.”
The warmth of his smile ignited the smallest tinder remaining in Kiyla’s heart. A tiny flame illuminated chambers filled with a lifetime of muck and grime. But it held, steadily shining with life-giving hope. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Rustin tipped his hat and climbed in his saddle. “Whether you decide to stay with me or leave for Elinwyche, the forest will guide your way.” With a clack of his tongue, he trotted away.
“So,” Kiyla said, turning to Elric, “can you ride?”
“Pfft…I’s born to ride. But…I might need help getting’ in the saddle.”
With some help, Elric climbed onto the mare and scooted forward to the pommel. Kiyla mounted behind him, placing one steady hand around him and taking the reins in the other. She glanced back at the saddlebags. “You packed light.”
“Ever’thang burnt ‘cept my sword, ‘at purple sack, an’ the dragon armor an’ shield. The Vashanti gave me these clothes an’ ‘is here coat.”
“Where’s your armor?”
“I don’ want it no more.”
“Thought you liked it. ‘Bestest thang ever,’ right?”
“Naw. What would you do if yer gloves jis started in on beatin’ ya in the face ‘til you was dead?”
“I get it.” She nudged the mare forward. “It’s a long ride. Let’s go.”
As Rustin had promised, the Cerion Forest cleared a path before them and rendered impassible all side routes and the way back. Elric slumbered inside the safety of Kiyla’s grasp, the stress of recovery overtaking him. Kiyla prodded the faithful mare to a brisk canter, and as evening approached, her thoughts found a voice.
“So…Maker…” What do I say? “Thanks? Is that…is that what you want? I don’t know much about you. Don’t see how you know much about me. I ain’t nothing. Never have been. I’m broken. Inside and out. And alone. But I got friends now. And I got Elric. So, you came through, I guess. If you can hear me, thanks. I owe you one.” It wasn’t a prayer as such, but Kiyla didn’t know how to pray. Hopefully that wouldn’t matter. Assuming any of it mattered.
They reached the edge of the forest as night descended under a starless sky. Kiyla paused their journey to light her lamp, whispering gratitude to Rustin for the fresh supply of oil. With the comforting glow lighting their way, Elric stirred and stretched.
“Where are we?”
“Probably halfway there,” Kiyla said. “What was it like?” The question had burned in her mind for miles. Was the Maker there?
“Huh?”
“Bein’ dead. Did you…see anything? Do anything?”
“Not much, when ya get right down to it. I was fightin’ in a long battle what went on fer weeks an’ had no purpose, an’—”
“Weeks? You been dead six days.”
“Um…more’n ‘at.” Elric fell silent for a time, working math on his fingers. “Hang on, I’m countin’. Ten, ‘leven, fi’teen—gimme a sec—twenny, twenny-six. Prolly thirty days give or take.”
“That can’t be right,” Kiyla muttered.
“Well, I ain’t lyin’ ‘cause I don’ do that no more. I stole a horse what could talk, an’ it put me straight. I don’t steal no more, either.”
Kiyla leaned over to get a look at his face. “A talkin’ horse?”
Elric flashed an excited grin. “Yep! His name’s Isaac, an’ he’s real smart. An’ I got kilt…like every day ‘til I figgered out I didn’ haffa fight. So, I jis left. Me an’ Isaac roamed fer days jis seein’ stuff. They got rivers that heal ya, sunsets where there ain’t no sun, an’ birds in colors ya ain’t never seen. Then we met this ol’ farmer named Argyle, only he weren’t really a farmer; he’s a avatar of the Maker. He fixed me some soup jis like Ma makes. An’ he said I’s s’posed t’be a paladin, so ‘at’s what I’m gonna do.”
Elric spoke at length about his experiences in the Maker’s Realms. He described the never-ending war and his inner struggle to assume his duties or break ranks. Initially, Kiyla wagged her head at the wild tales, but Elric exuded a level of intensity she could not dismiss. Who was she to say he hadn’t done those things? But that left her with only one conclusion: he had done them. And that meant the afterlife was real—the avatars, the sunless skies…all of it. With her final shred of resistance stretched to the breaking point, Kiyla sighed into the wintry air. All right, Maker. This is a start. It was an imperfect belief, muddled with doubt. But it was a start.
For another hour, Kiyla listened to Elric’s story, prompting with questions, until her lack of sleep caught up with her again. As the mare trotted a rhythmic cadence and Elric prattled on about his calling, Kiyla leaned her head on his back and listened to the rumble of his voice through his body, drawing both comfort and faith from him.
*******************
Shortly before dawn, the faithful russet mare, its trot long ago diminished to a steady plodding, trudged with heavy head into the empty, snow-covered market square of Edgewood. A woman drew water from the community well. The smoke from two dozen chimneys blanketed the village, adding another layer of gray beneath the heavy clouds. Elric pulled rein and nudged Kiyla. “We’re here.”
The weary brawler lifted her head. “I’m so sore,” she groaned. She pointed to the haberdasher’s store. “Over there.” With delicate movements, she slipped off the saddle.
Elric stumbled as he dismounted, catching himself by the pommel. “I’m aw’ight,” he said when Kiyla offered to support him. “I gotta walk at some point.”
They rapped on the front door, but the building was locked and silent. “Lemme check ‘round back,” Elric said. He shuffled to the side, plowing new furrows in the shin-deep snow. A light metallic clink from the stable alerted him. “Hello?”
“Ain’t open,” said a gruff voice from within the stable. “Come back after breakfast.”
Elric trudged forward and peered through the stable door. “We jis need a new horse, ‘at’s all.”
A middle-aged man with graying hair looked up from the side of a magnificent black gelding, its gleaming coat shining in the light of a nearby lantern. The horse patiently waited as a shoe was fitted to a rear hoof.
“We need that horse!” Elric whispered excitedly.
The man lowered the horse’s leg and slipped the shoe hammer into his apron. “I said we ain’t open.”
“I got some gold coins says you are.”
The haberdasher stood up with a grunt and dusted off his hands. The scowl on his face remained unaffected by the mention of gold. “Look, reg’lar hours are from sunup to sundown, after I had my breakfast. Now get outta here or—oh…it’s you.”
Kiyla stepped into the stable and stood with Elric, her arms folded atop a wide stance. “I’m back, I’m sore, and I need my horse.”
The haberdasher sighed heavily as he untied his apron. “I reckon you’re in a hurry, too.”
“Yep.”
Elric elbowed the brawler gently. “Ya know this guy?”
“He sold me the mare. Good horse, too. Worth every mark. And he’s gonna give me back my horse.” She raised her head and voice. “Right?”
“Maybe,” the haberdasher replied. “You see, I done taken a shinin’ to this beast. He’s gentle but strong, mild but fast as the wind. I was thinkin’ about givin’ him to my granddaughter this Mid-winter.”
Kiyla’s stare turned to glower. “It’s my horse.”
“Which you sold to me.”
“Nine Hells, I did. I bought your mare. You gave me nothin’ for the black. Food and stable…which I paid for.”
The haberdasher grabbed his lantern. Oscillating shadows danced across his sneer as the light swung in his hand. “We had an accord as I recollect it, an’ you went away happy as a lark. It ain’t my fault you forgot sellin’ your horse to me.”
“I didn’t sell my horse!” Kiyla cracked a few knuckles.
The man’s smile vanished, but he held his ground. “But hey, you can buy him back…fer seventy-five stallions.”
Kiyla leaned towards Elric, keeping her steely glare on the man. “I could break his jaw with one hit.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “Maybe two.”
“All right…” The haberdasher wrung his hands. “Tell ya what, I’ll drop the price to an even fifty. That’s what ya paid for the mare, an’ that’s the best deal you’ll get anywhere fer a fine horse like this.”
“But it’s my horse,” Kiyla growled.
The man fidgeted as if he were contemplating a run for it. “Forty stallions; that’s the best I can offer.”
“Give him to me. Before I break your nose.”
He scrubbed his chin. “Thirty gold, and I’ll throw in some breakfast.”
Kiyla raised a pair of fists and stepped forward.
The haberdasher raised his shoe hammer.
Elric jumped between them. He put his hands on Kiyla’s arms to steady the wobbling in his legs. “Hang on, Ki.”
He turned around. “Mister…”
A cold stare greeted him. The hammer loomed.
Elric met his gaze. “Have ya ever died?”
The man squinted. “You threatenin’ me?”
“It’s a simple question. See, I died last week, but some mystics brung me back to life, so I can tell ya about it.”
“Ain’t interested.”
“Ya see…” Elric stepped closer and snap-pointed at the man. “A man’s gotta be interested in these thangs. Ever’body dies, ya know. Some of us take longer ‘an others, but we all gotta part ways sometime. I learnt some lessons whilst I was dead, an’ I figger since I got me another chance, I need to let you in on some thangs—”
“I don’t have time for this.” The haberdasher shuffled on his feet and searched for an exit.
“Well, I got nuttin but time, an’ I reckon the best way fer me to spend it is by talkin’ with folks who ain’t given death its proper due. Now, take the First Realm fer instance. Some folks say it’s—”
“Will you shut the rink up?”
“Prolly not,” Elric said, stepping closer. “There’s seven whole realms, an’ I ain’t even got started in on the first’n real good. So, either you sit an’ listen to me, or I let Kiyla bust yer nose, or…you give her the horse an’ we leave.”
“Seriously?”
Elric folded his arms. “I can talk all day.”
The man glanced at Kiyla, and she nodded while grinding her fist in a hand.
“Okay, fine…fine!” The man set the hammer aside and held up his hands. “Just take it. Take the rinkin horse and leave.”
As they left Edgewood on the black gelding, Kiyla gave Elric a gentle squeeze. “You’re different.”
Elric shrugged. “Sometimes ya win by not fightin’.”
****************
Cora emerged from the bedroom of the elder’s house, holding a worn book over her head. She shimmied between a stack of loose boards on one side and a pile of empty crates on the other. Her cloak snagged on a protruding nail, and she muttered a curse. “Can we not dump all this junk outside?”
“It’s not ours to dump,” Moffe replied from the front room.
Cora squeezed through the debris and settled near the fireplace where a pair of table legs waited their turn in the fire. “But it’s okay to burn it?”
Moffe grimaced beneath the logic. “What’s that?”
Cora flipped through several pages. “It’s a collection of poetry from Harran. Tolerable, not great, but it’s something to do. Want me to read you a passage?”
Cuauhtérroc looked up from carving intricate designs into a third table leg. “No.”
Moffe matched his reply.
Cora held the book up in the firelight. They don’t know just how banal Harran can be.
“I struggle to understand this.” Moffe’s gaze fell somewhere onto the middle of the room. “The wild Vashanti came down from the Maz Nabor to defend this village against a curse of undeath. They try but fail to kill Jangles, who seems to have the entire people under his thrall. He holds a power I have not seen before. The elder, however, they do kill, claiming he was in league with Jangles. I think that old songsage has a lot to answer for.”
Cora looked up from her reading. “I no longer think he’s a songsage.”
That afternoon, Cora carved a path to the kitchen, fighting against teetering heaps of cast-off clothing. She dared not think what might be living inside those piles, but the odor strongly suggested rats. It was enough to disperse her hunger, but there were two men near the fireplace who needed to eat.
Within minutes, she had a crackling fire and a pot of water set to boil. Jars of preserved goods filled the cabinets—potatoes, carrots, turnips, green beans—and dried meat hung in the larder. Hunger pangs swept through her as she chunked the meat and tossed everything into the pot to stew.
While she stirred the pot, Cora retrieved the worn kerchief from her pocket and rubbed the dingey “MdC” embroidered in the corner. Montpeleón was never far from her thoughts, held there by this fabric reminder. Like the freeblades, the kerchief had suffered much since leaving Westmeade, but it grounded her and provided much-needed memories of better times and places than this. I hope he’s doing well. I’m sure he is! He’s not hunkered down in a shack contemplating his whole life. Maybe I should have accepted his proposal.
A knock at the front door froze her hand in mid-stir and blanked her mind. Jangles. Cripe, my lute is in the front room. She shoved the kerchief back in her pocket, grabbed a carving knife, and exited through the back door. Crouching around the corner of the house, she spotted a weary woman slide off the saddle of a black horse, but she could not see who had knocked. She gripped the wooden handle of the knife and inched closer.
As the woman settled into the knee-deep snow, she staggered as if in great pain. She doubled over with a grunt, and a long braid of ash blonde hair spilled from her hood.
“Kiyla!” Cora squealed. She bounded across the yard through the snow, completely ignoring her mother’s warning about running with knives.
Kiyla looked up with eyes dulled by weariness. “Hey…”
A fresh set of footprints led from the horse to the front door of the house. Cora’s heart leapt in her chest. “Elric?”
Kiyla nodded.
Cora dropped the knife as a burst of giddy joy propelled her into the air. She threw her arms around the brawler and dashed into the house.
“Elric!” she screamed as she burst through the door. In the front room, Cuauhtérroc clasped arms with a short, stout man in dark green clothing and a thick overcoat. Both men spun to face her, and Cuauhtérroc dropped into a defensive stance, his dark eyes flashing with danger.
Elric’s shoulders relaxed. He exhaled sharply and opened his arms. “Da’gum, Cora! Ya scared the pee outta me.”
Cora’s forehead scrunched as she looked him over. “What…what happened to your mustache?”
“Pfft…that ain’t the half of it. Ever’thang’s burnt. I’m a walkin’ scar an’ ugly as a cow’s butt.”
His very presence defined Beauty, and Cora rushed into his open arms. “Thank the Maker! I am so glad to see you again.”
The front door opened with Kiyla stomping snow from her boots. “Ahem…”
Elric released his hug with more of a push than was necessary.
Kiyla slipped an arm into Elric’s. It might have been to help her stand, but the glint in her eye hinted she was laying claim.
“So…” Cora clapped him on an arm. “How are you?”
“Better’n I deserve.”
Moffe stood near the fireplace and studied Elric with a contemplative frown. He cradled his chin in a hand and tapped a finger on his cheek. He worked his jaw and blinked hard.
“That’s Moffe,” Cora said, “warden of the Cerion Forest.”
“Hey, I remember you at Prisido Castle,” Elric said. “Whatcha doin’ out here with us?”
“I should ask the same of you,” Moffe replied. “It is not yet Odhasaim.”
Elric turned to Cora. “What’s that?”
Moffe stepped forward, a scowl deepening over his brown eyes. “You were supposed to be raised on Odhasaim, when the Void touches Kreth and mystics are able to raise the dead. You were supposed to be held for Ordin’s return. Life for life.”
“I dunno.” Elric shrugged. “Rustin said I’s free to go. Said he done told them mystics I’s too important to keep sittin’ ‘round the forest.”
“I said we needed him.” Kiyla put an arm around Elric and pulled him close. “Gotta kill the undead.”
Elric beamed. “Oh…and also…I told ‘em I seen Argyle an’ I’m gonna be a paladin. I reckon that’s what got their knickers in a wad.”
“Nope.” Kiyla punched his arm. “It’s ‘cause you peed on their sacred tree.”
“Well how’s I s’posed to know it was—”
“Just…” Moffe held up a hand. “Just stop it. You do not know what sacrifices will be made because you are here. The least you can do is show some dignity.”
Cora clapped her hands. “So, I’ve got some stew on the stove. Who’s hungry?”
Two hours passed as they ate and Elric related his afterlife experiences. Such things were the stuff of legend; they simply didn’t happen to ordinary people. And Elric was one of the ordinariest.
“So, what was it like?” he asked after the conversation had died down and the stew had turned into a stack of empty bowls in the sink. “Ya know, my dyin’…goin’ up in flames an’ all that.”
Cora glanced at Kiyla, who was shaking her head. She looked over at Cuauhtérroc. It was going to be difficult telling him about it.
“You burn up in dees fire,” the savage said. “You smell like dees reebs, but not weeth dees Blackie Sauce. You smell like dees Fire Mountains when dey throw burning rocks into dees sky. You were black and dead.”
“Well, aw’ight then,” Elric said, then he slipped into quiet reverie, his blue eyes staring into the middle distance.
Death was hard enough to witness when it happened to someone else. Cora understood a small portion of why the mystics said returning to life was “unnatural.” One should not be witness to one’s own death; it staggered the mind.
Moffe pushed back his chair. “Yours is an intriguing tale, Elric. If you truly tasted the Seven Realms, then perhaps the Assembly was right to release you. Whether you are to become a paladin is open for debate, but perhaps your presence will be useful at the unholy henge on Equine Hill.”
“What’s that?” Elric asked.
“It’s a giant shrine to Vaeroloth,” Cora explained. “All life within miles of it is drawn to it and converted to undead abominations. People too…” She glanced back at Moffe.
“We gotta destroy that!” Elric exclaimed.
Moffe walked to a window and peered through the curtains. “Given what we’ve seen, I am uncertain whether we can. Animithe streamed down from the Maz Nabor to protect Nature, but they have failed to stem the growing darkness. I cannot see how we will fare any better.”
“Well, ya got me an’ Kiyla, now,” Elric said, “an’ ‘at ain’t nothin’. An’ seein’ as I’m s’posed to be a paladin, this looks like a good time to start.”
Moffe turned from the window. “Tomorrow is Odhasaim. Perhaps your early return is a fortuitous providence.”
“Mebbe so,” Elric said with a smirk. “What is that?”
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