The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (10 page)

The rider then knelt beside the makeshift grave, and he whispered the words that Cal had heard many times before, spoken by the Priests of Haven at the end of a life.

“May bones and breath be born again,

In limb and tree and light.

May flint and flame your soul reclaim,

So that men might see your life again.”

For a minute, almost as if it were rehearsed, the village went silent. No distant voices of other riders, no sounds of hooves beating the trail or wind blowing through the dead forest of tree stumps, just reverent silence for the fallen dead.

Then the rider stood and kissed the leaf-shaped stone from around his neck. He turned to look at Cal by the light of his torch and spoke. “Fill this in, and be quick about it, for I don’t like the feeling this place gives me. It might be that these two will not be the only ones to encounter the raven’s arrow if we are not soon to depart.” He looked around the village like a dog that has caught a scent of something uncertain in the wind. “You will leave with us.”

“Leave with you?” Cal questioned him, panic coloring in his voice. “But I don’t even know who you are, let alone where you’re going.”

“Fair enough,” the rider responded as he strode back to his horse. “You just keep doing whatever it is that you are doing, and if the wolves or the black arrows don’t get you first, then maybe I can help you achieve that restitution you are after.”

“Wait, what?” Cal’s head was spinning.

The rider swung back atop his horse and turned to leave. “If you don’t have too many more questions … then I suggest you finish filling in that hole as fast as your skinny arms can.” He pointed to the east, and Cal followed his gaze to see two more riders with torches appearing on the edge of the village. “Over there, in just a few moments, an oxcart empty of the timber that it just delivered will make its way up that path. I suggest that you make your way atop the back of it.”

Cal began to realize to whom he was talking. “You … you’re a woodcutter, aren’t you?”

“Get it done soon, or you can find your way on foot. The choice is yours.” He dug his heels into his mount as he started down the road towards the other two riders, pausing briefly to call over his shoulder. “Tell the men on the cart that Yasen has granted you passage.”

Chapter Eleven

C
al
quickly came to realize what a gift Yasen’s invitation was as he woke rested and refreshed from his ride as a passenger in the back of the empty oxcart. He could only begin to imagine how long such a journey would have taken him on foot, and he shuddered at the thought of just how unprepared he had been for it.

It was the sound of horns blowing that woke him, but not the bright brass trumpets of the guards of the Citadel; these horns had an earthy northern ring to them. Cal heard them off in the distance, and then looked to see the riders around the cart answering the call with the unfamiliar sounds of their own horns.

The riders wore thick, heavy furs to protect themselves from the bite of the frigid winds. The North had not always been so uninvitingly cold, but it seemed that each time the light of the great tree lessened, the whole of Aiénor grew angry in the wake of the dimming. The farther away from the light of the tree, the more severe and unpredictable the weather became. Stories were told of great blizzards and massive hailstorms that claimed the lives of some of the more adventurous woodcutters. And now, with the failing of the tree, these once temperate forestlands had become acclimated to the sting of a biting chill.

Yet the woodcutters remained resolute in their calling, shielding their bodies and steeling their resolve against the cold winds of the North with hides and furs and good strong ale. Some wore black bear skins, and others wore the fur of wolves, but each rider had a curled ram’s horn slung from his belt that brought a sense of uniformity to the beastly, wild crew of men.

The sound of their reply rang loudly through the northern territory, echoing off the rocky edges of the now timberless Hilgari. Cal stood to take in the view of the tall mountains, and as he did he caught a glimpse of an uncommon yet welcome sight. The rare green color of the remaining forest shone like a beacon just off to the eastern horizon, and Cal could finally see the encampment of the fur-clad cutters.

The men on horseback rode ahead of the oxcarts now that they were in sight of the cutter camp. A full day of hard riding could make even the most grizzly of men desperate for a warm fire and a hot bath.

Cal stayed where he was in the back of the timber cart and watched as oxen and driver took him past the temporary barricades. Surrounding the encampment were braziers lit with watch fires. Because timber was so precious and fleeting, the woodcutters did not bother with perimeter fencing; instead they relied on the small watch fires fueled by the dry dung of their herds to ward off any unwelcomed visitors.

However, at the center of the camp was a single watchtower, the lone luxury of the woodcutters. This edifice was the only defense in place for these holy soldiers of the Citadel’s Priests, and it stood just thirty-seven hands high. The assigned lookouts would climb the short distance to the top each day and keep watch over the tents and livestock from the vantage of their perch.

When the timber cart finally came to a stop just inside the boundary of the camp, Cal hopped down from its bed and did his best to ready himself for his new assignment.

The camp was alive with the sounds of sharp axes biting the bark of the great pine forest that stood defeated not half a league from the encampment. Thumps and cracks were punctuated by the crash of fallen trees. The ground seemed to quake constantly, and Cal was not so sure he would ever get used to all the noise.

Blacksmiths forged axes at the east end of the camp, banging hammer upon steel and then steel upon stone as they smithied the weapons of war for this holy army. Three guardsmen stood atop the watchtower, equipped with strong bows and looking glasses and the very same ram’s horns that Cal had seen the riders wearing, all of which were worn or held at the ready.

Cal couldn’t help but wonder how many multitudes of rams had given their lives to feed and outfit the hundreds of woodcutters of this camp.

The men made their rest by sleeping in yurts, rounded tents made of animal hides, which were arranged in concentric circles around the watchtower. The pattern was flawless, nearly unbroken but for one section to the south side of the tower, where the oxen and horses were kept and the sheep and rams were penned.

Cal was wide-eyed with amazement as he took in the new and strange sights of this unfamiliar place. The rhythm of the camp, the sheer volume of their labor, and the scope of their efficiency had Cal nervous that he might upset the balance of the place.

The driver of the oxcart told Cal to make his way towards the largest tent at the base of the tower. There he would find the chief cutter who was in charge of this whole outfit.

The life of the cutter camp was rigorous; it was generous with piety and stingy with laughter. The men worked with a fierce urgency, but not with hope; for they could see, maybe better than anyone else, the impending doom that accompanied the failing light.

They swung their axes and recited their ritual prayers with deft efficiency, but they knew that this timber would not last. With each tree felled and each fire fed, the darkness grew more ominous in the wake of the man-made light. It wasn’t just the darkness that birthed fearful melodies in the hearts of the woodcutters though; it was the danger, the evil that had swelled in juxtaposition to the dying tree.

Each morning, the men of the camp would gather on the edge of the forest, sharpened steel in hand, the reflection of the braziers gleaming off of their double-bladed instruments of devotion. Kneeling, the men would wait for their Priest to come and speak the holy words, blessing both their actions and their production.

The Priest would speak with all the conviction that jaded piety would allow for:

“Oh Master of flame and Bringer of light,

Make our hearts true and our blades bite.

Fuel our work and worth with Your holy might,

So the world might see what devotion and discipline can make,

A light that honors both Maker and seer,

That proves to the world that our God must be great.”

Upon completion of the words, the men would look up towards the Priest from their reverent stance and raise to their lips the leaf-shaped flints from around their necks. They would kiss the stone three times, and then speak in unison the seven words.

“We, by the THREE who is SEVEN.”

The woodcutters would then rise to their feet and file towards the edge of the retreating forest with axe in hand.

Hollis was chief of the woodcutters. He was a tall man, standing head and shoulders above most men of the city, but it wasn’t his height that caused him to be striking. It was the booming volume of his proud words. His red beard was an accurate indicator of his fiery demeanor, but it was his voice, the way it seemed to resound off the mountains, which commanded the attention and the respect of the men.

Hollis had magic about him, a magnetism that bound and drew the men in fierce loyalty to him. There was even talk amongst the woodcutters that it was Hollis’ devotion to the way of the flint, and not their own dedication to the Priests, that moved them to say the words and swing the axes.

He wore the furs of a great white lion, and in his old age he still swung his great axe Viőarr, “the forest warrior”, with unfading strength.

When Cal opened the hide door to the chief’s yurt, he knew instantaneously that he had just interrupted a conversation that he probably should not have heard. Hollis was giving an earful of reprimanding to one of the young riders Cal had met just a half a day ago.

“Where are the others?” he boomed. “Where are the other hands I was promised?!”

The young rider stood still as a pine tree, wavering not in the slightest even amidst the wild vehemence that came from Hollis’ outrage.

Hollis slammed his huge fist on the table with a frustrated anger, sending its contents tumbling to the floor.

“How am I supposed to fuel the entire city? How am I supposed to fight this … this
damnable dark
without help?” Hollis demanded.

“I went everyday, sir, every single day for a week. I spoke of duty and of flint, I read from the Priests’ book and I told—”

“I know you did, son,” Hollis interrupted. “It’s this darkness.” He stood to his feet, turning his back to the young rider. “The city has not forgotten the way, it is just too afraid to follow it any longer.”

Cal sensed a whirlwind of emotions coming from the large, red man. At first he thought he was going to rip the young rider to pieces with nothing but his bare hands. His voice shook the very bones in Cal’s chest as he roared out his anger. And then, it was as if his fury turned from fiery wrath to saddened resignation, for the chieftain’s enraged words now carried with them a tone of defeat.

Hollis turned back to the rider, and with a fatherly softness to his eyes, he said, “It is not all your fault, son. Go, see about bringing Yasen to me, and pray long and hard that the THREE who is SEVEN might grant us strength enough for what is to come.”

“Aye, Chief,” answered the rider, and then he left.

Cal watched the powerful woodcutter wrestling with the dire situation there in the shelter of his small tent. Something like pity came over Cal and he stepped to the center of the warm room to announce both his arrival and his assignment.

“Excuse me, sir,” Cal spoke up.

Hollis looked up from his table, clearly not recognizing the young man who stood before him.

“And just who might you be?” Hollis asked curiously.

“I am Cal, sir … I was sent here by the Priests on assignment in order to make restitution.”

Hollis took a long, hard look at him, and somehow Cal knew that he was grading him, evaluating him, and determining just how much aid this smooth-cheeked city dweller could actually bring to their cause.

Not wanting to wait for a judgment, Cal spoke up again. “I am a groomsman, and a good one at that, sir. If it is your will, I can go about serving the horses. I might even be able to help with the oxen too … although I don’t know too much about their care … but I am sure—”

“A groomsman?” Hollis interrupted with a bemused tone. He stood there looking at Cal and shaking his head. “A
groomsman
! A groomsman … I ask for backs and brawn and they send me a groomsman?!” He broke out into a deep and disappointed laughter. “A groomsman, are you, son?”

“Yes sir, I am,” Cal said, a little embarrassed. “But I can learn how to swing an axe too, if that will help.”

“Of course you will,” Hollis said, his laughter now dying down as his aged face grew hard with defeat all over again. “Only by the time you are strong and ready enough to be of any great use, there may not be many trees left or light enough by which to see them.”

“I will vouch for his strength,” said a voice that came from behind Cal.

Cal jumped, startled at the realization that there was someone else now in the tent. He turned and saw a tall figure walking out from the darkened doorway to the lamp-lit center of the room.

“Yasen?” Hollis and Cal said in unison.

“Aye, don’t discredit this one,” Yasen said. “When I came across him, he was digging a grave big enough for two grown men with nothing more than a garden spade.”

Hollis’ gaze turned from bemused to suspicious. His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Go on.”

Yasen gave Hollis a brief account of his first encounter with Cal, while Cal stood by and watched the exchange. When Yasen brought up the raven-feathered arrows, he saw Hollis look quizzically at Yasen, searching his face and his words for the true meaning of such a find.

“Yes.” Yasen spoke without ever being asked a question.

Cal knew he was missing something in their silent conversation, but at least for the moment, they clearly did not wish to spell it out for him.

“This one here,” Yasen said as he pointed to Cal, “said that life was too valuable to leave rotting by the roadside … or something like that, I don’t quite remember the whole of it. But whatever it was he said, he believed it enough to do something about it.”

“Maybe the THREE who is SEVEN hasn’t deemed our cause unworthy after all?” Hollis said as he took a long draw from his carved bone pipe. “Perhaps I have misjudged your character, young Cal, but I do suspect this harsh North is not the kind of place you were made to dwell long in.” A smoke-filled chuckle followed his thoughtful words.

“So did you come just to bury the forgotten dead, or is there another assignment that we are not aware of?” Hollis questioned.

“Like I told you before, sir, I have been sent to make restitution,” Cal said to the chief.

“Huh …” grunted Hollis. “Restitution you say? That must have been some grievous offense, to be sent this far north.” He took another long draw on his pipe. “But perhaps it is the will of the THREE who is SEVEN, for I have been praying long for fresh hands and able backs.”

Hollis turned his attention to Yasen again. “What do you have to report of the timber trek?”

“The offering was made at the altar, though timber was not the only thing sacrificed there,” said Yasen with coldness to his words.