Outcaste, p.16
Outcaste, page 16
part #1 of Alterra Undiscovered Realms Series
Wrothgar listened to the report of his emissary, an Outcaste male who had been captured long ago. Bribed back into servitude with the promise of riches and power, he now sat at his Master's hand, having first been altered so that he could not breed. The Shadowmancer wasted no time in gathering together a force of Ulcas and trolls, and sending them north to eliminate every last one of their distant, misguided kin.
Gaelen had been summoned back into Danté's presence after only a few hours. When she saw the pain in his face, she knew that this would be his last night among the living. His eyes still held spark, but they were fading. She tried to appear light-hearted as she approached him, but she could smell impending death on him.
“You needn't pretend to be so cheerful, you know,” said Danté, “although I do appreciate the effort. I know how I look.”
“Very well then, would you prefer weeping and wailing?” asked Gaelen. “If so, I'll see what I can muster, though it will be more difficult to hear your tale.”
Danté gave forth a wheezing chuckle and waved her off. “No, thank you! If there's anything I don't want, it's insincerity.”
Gaelen smiled and sat before him. “Would you like me to build up the fire?” she asked. “You seem cold.”
“Yes, please,” he replied. “And then make yourself comfortable, and do not interrupt! I shall not take long in the telling. When I have finished, I want you to remain. I'll also summon Errno, for I have things to say to each of you.” Gaelen got the fire going well, settled on a floor-cushion made of dried bulrushes, and sat in silence as Danté began his tale.
“I was born into one of the northern clans of Men almost a hundred and fifty years ago. We had lived along the northern waters of the river Brocca, in the rugged foothills of the Northern Mountains. Even though the land was hard, it was bountiful, and the river provided well for our needs. I was one of the better educated men of our clan, and was, in fact, apprenticed to our lore-master. I had a wife, but she had not yet borne any children. I also had two brothers and a sister, all of whom had families of their own.
“One dark night, our encampment was raided by Ulcas, and they had brought with them several large, fierce trolls. Our folk were taken by surprise; most were sleeping, and those set to the watch had already been slain. We had lived peacefully with our unpleasant neighbors, who had not dared to attack us until that night. I still don’t understand why they did so.
“I awoke to the roaring of the trolls and the screaming of my friends and family members. I remember the fires that were set, and the hammers and blades swinging in the ruddy light. I remember the sight of one of the Ulcas directing the others—he had my younger brother's head impaled on a spear—and I remember the screams of my young wife as a troll crashed into our dwelling. Then I remember nothing else…until I awakened in a most precarious and unpleasant situation.
“I was being dragged along by my feet, which were in the enormous hand of a hill-troll, along a mountain path. My head bumped along among the rocks…it was a wonder I ever regained my senses. Once I took stock of my situation, I realized the villain was dragging me back to its lair to eat! I would have panicked had it not been for the poor unfortunate in the troll's other hand, who chose that particular moment to start screaming. The troll shook him, but he wouldn't be still—he grabbed a rock and bashed the troll's fingers with it. The troll became most thoroughly annoyed and dropped me to see to its bruised fingers, grabbing the man with its other hand and crushing the life out of him. I will never forget the terrible, gurgling sound he made.”
Danté began coughing, his emaciated body shuddering with effort, holding a bloody rag to his face. After a moment, he continued.
“I took advantage of the diversion, crawling quietly backward, hoping to escape notice. The troll was busy chewing the head off my companion, no doubt to make sure he would give no more trouble, but then it turned its attention back to me. I had not put nearly enough distance between us, and as it reached out to grab me, lunging with its heavy body, I sprinted backwards into the empty air! I did not have my bearings in the dark, and had fallen off the edge of the path. The last sound I heard was the disappointed roar of the troll as the wind whistled past my ears. I vaguely remember striking something hard, and then all was dark again.
“When I awoke, I discovered that I was perched on a narrow shelf of rock on the side of the mountain. Above and below were sheer cliffs that I could not possibly negotiate. I was trapped, broken, and in pain, and I knew that my doom was at hand.
It was then that I saw a very small face peering at me from above. Apparently, there was a cleft in the rock that led to an underground passage, but it was far too high for me to gain it. It was a very ugly little face, dark and mottled, and it looked like an Ulca. But then it spoke to me. I could not understand the words, but I had decided that it was a child, and I both saw and heard concern in the eyes and in the voice. 'Please,' I shouted, 'please help me!' The little being spoke again as I began to weep. Then it disappeared.
“I saw no more of it until the following sunset. I had thought of ending my own pain and thirst by casting myself onto the rocks below, but curiosity had prevented me. Would the Ulca-child return? If it did, would it bring more Ulcas to make a meal of me? In that event, I would throw myself into the abyss for certain!
“As the red clouds gathered in the west, I heard the voice of the child again, and looked up to see that homely, misshapen face staring back at me. 'Come to see if I'm still here, have you?' I called up to it, though the cold was taking its toll on my voice, and I’m sure it was difficult to hear me over the rising wind. The little creature then lowered a cord tied around a vessel of water and a sack of dry bread. I grabbed them and kept hold of the cord. My thirst was terrible, and so I drank the water.
“When I looked up to thank my little benefactor, I saw a much larger head peering over the top of the other. Then it disappeared and, after a while, a stouter rope appeared. I hesitated, wondering whether they would simply haul me up only to kill me and eat me. But then I realized that they would simply have ignored me and left me to die unless they actually wanted to help. Besides that, there was something in the eyes of that little, grey child—something that looked remarkably like empathy. Empathy, my dear Gaelen, is the single characteristic which distinguishes an enlightened being from a benighted one. So I took the rope and tied it underneath my arms. Before I knew it, several large, strong Ulcas were hoisting me up to the crack in the rock. I was saved.
“I could not help but fear them at first; after all, they looked like Ulcas who have simply decided to dress a little better than average. But as they tended me I came to realize that they were a breed apart. At first things were awkward, for very few of them knew any of the tongues of men. They have been speaking unheard for so long that their own language, a rather odd combination of Ulcan and Aridani, is rather crude. Fortunately, they had once had a teacher, another man like me. His few surviving works are recorded along with mine in the notebook I gave you. Hence, a few of the Outcastes had acquired some knowledge of common-tongue, and thank heaven for that.
“‘What of my people?’ I asked. ‘My clan lives in the hills by the river. Do you know if any remain there?’
“The large male who had first appeared with the child shook his head, and I despaired. All of my people had been wiped out…there was nothing left to return to. As it turned out, the child was Errno, and the adult male who appeared with him was his father, Errnen. They took me in, cared for me, and healed me as best they could. All they asked for in return was that I teach them the ways of men. I did so, and I also recorded as much of their history as they could impart. I have lived with them for nearly a hundred and ten years at present, but I fear I have come to the end tonight.”
Danté paused, drawing another painful breath. “I'm sure that my folk would not have made any distinction between Ulcas and Outcastes, and I would imagine that they killed some of the Outcastes unaware. Yet Errnen's people took me in, knowing I was helpless. They fed me and gave me water, and they ignored the fact that I was of an ‘enemy’ race. They waited to judge me as an individual, and that is the mark of a truly civilized being. It wasn't my desire to spend the rest of my life here, just as it wasn't your choice to be drawn into their fate, but I'm proud to have helped them get this far. You and your friends will take them the rest of the way.”
He paused again, looking back over his shoulder toward the small table against the wall. “Fetch me my pipe, will you?” he asked Gaelen, who was happy to oblige. He drew forth a pouch from his robe and filled the pipe with leaf, as Gaelen brought him a small splinter of lighted kindling from the fire. He nodded in gratitude, touching the flame to the leaf, and was soon puffing away. “I know I shouldn’t smoke any more, but it doesn’t matter…I deserve one last pipe.” The expression on his face was one of pure, sublime satisfaction.
“How in the world did you manage to get your hands on pipe-leaf down here?” wondered Gaelen, who had never understood the attraction for it.
“I don't have it very often, and of course it does not grow anywhere nearby. I'm afraid my friends must steal it for me, which is a thing they are very good at.”
Gaelen smiled. “Isn't there a law against that?”
“It’s only against the law to steal from another Outcaste, and then only without cause,” said Danté, his mouth twitching beneath his moustache. “When one is in hiding, I fear everyone else's goods are fair game.”
“Is there nothing more to the tale, Master?” Gaelen asked. “I mean, what became of Errnan? Is he still here?”
“Alas, no,” said Danté. “He was lost in a storm while venturing outside on a dark night about twenty years ago. Errno has been the head of the Gold Clan ever since. Oh, and speaking of Errno…” Danté closed his eyes, and appeared to be in a state of high concentration for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. “He is on his way.” Danté turned then back to Gaelen, his pain plain to see. “You must take care of him now, for he is still a child in many ways, and I believe he will have some hard lessons to learn.”
Danté's death would be a cause of great sorrow among the People, for they were all fond of the old man…even the followers of Vakil. It had not been a good death. Errno and Gaelen had done what little they could for Danté as he battled with his failing body. He did manage to impart his final messages to them, but his last hours had been agonizing, slow, and less than dignified. Both Errno and Gaelen had been horrified by it; they had never witnessed a death from old age before.
When Danté lay still at last, Errno closed the tortured brown eyes and wiped the tears of pain from the ancient, wrinkled face. He turned to Gaelen with a bereft and empty heart. This man had been as close to Errno as his father had—perhaps even closer. Errno was still very young for an Outcaste, and though he possessed great strength of character, his emotions were fragile. He looked desperately at Gaelen for comfort, for anything to make sense of what had just happened, and she did not know what to say. She decided to try casting a thought to him.
(It was not his choice to leave you.)
Errno's thoughts assailed her then—chaotic, frantic, and filled with despair and uncertainty. She closed her mind to the railing, lashing storm of emotions and fears, took a step forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. That hand was like an anchor, or a tall rock providing shelter from the wind, and Errno grabbed on. Gaelen rode with him as he wept, trying not to hear the unlovely, broken sound that was so strange to her ears, but trying instead to feel the pain behind it. At last she had a real empathy with Errno, and she wept for him as well as for Danté.
When he had calmed, she rose to her feet again. “We must break the news to your people,” she said.
“There's no need,” said Errno. “They know it already.”
The turncoat felt Danté's death, along with the rest of the People. He grieved at the loss, for Danté had never attempted to direct the fate of the Outcastes, and he was not responsible for misleading them. At the same time, his heart felt a surge of joy at his good fortune. Danté would be mourned by all in the stronghold. The People would be distracted, most especially Errno and his clan of heretics. If Lord Wrothgar's forces arrived in time, they could take full advantage, and the worthy few would soon be on their way back into the waiting arms of Darkness.
Chapter 11: Messages on the Wind
Enlightenment may come from many sources, and it can take many forms. The Lord of Light sent the Asari to enlighten the free races of Alterra so that they could be educated, encouraged to explore and discover the workings of the world and of one another. The Asari were to gently guide them onto the path of high moral character.
The Sylvan Wood-elves, who are considered less enlightened than their High-elven cousins, did not have an Asarla to guide them. But, though they might have been lacking in formal education, they developed a bond with their world. They perceived messages sent forth from it, be they in leaf, water, or wind, and when Wrothgar's Ulcas were discovered as they traveled northward, it was the Wood-elves who first discovered them.
The scouts of Ri-Aruin had accompanied their King on the trek to Mountain-home, and they had been keeping close watch on the surrounding lands. When they noticed dark bands of Ulcas traveling by night they were dismayed, and relayed what they had seen to Ri-Aruin and to Lady Ordath. At the same time, Gowen reported that his folk had seen several trolls as well as Ulcas making their way northward by underground paths.
When Ordath heard this news, she turned pale and sent for Lord Shandor. He appeared within a few hours, his manner as imposing as always until he beheld his daughter’s distress.
“There are many trolls and Ulcas moving northward,” she said. “I can think of only one reason why they would do so, and that is that the Outcastes’ hiding place has become known to Lord Wrothgar. Errno said that Wrothgar has tried several times to exterminate them, but they have always been forewarned and have managed to move on before they could be taken. Somehow, I don't believe that will be the case this time.” Her dark blue eyes were anxious. “If the Outcastes are lost, so will be the Company. I'm unwilling to accept either. What may we do?”
Shandor did not answer at first; he was looking past Ordath, apparently lost in thought. “Wrothgar's Ulcas are less numerous since the last siege of Mountain-home some twenty years ago,” he said at last. “How large a force are they?”
“We are not certain. They are traveling in smaller groups, and not all together. The scouts have seen several hundred already, and the Dwarves have reported a significant number, together with several trolls. They are moving both above ground and below it, but always north.”
“I wonder if Wrothgar has learned of our intention to help Errno and his people,” said Shandor. “If so, that would explain why he feels compelled to act now, for eliminating them will be far more difficult once they are under our protection.”
“How would Wrothgar have learned of it? We did not make Errno's nature known until the meeting of the Council. I'm sure none of our folk have been conversing with agents of Darkness, and I'm not sure Errno's people fully understood why he came here.”
“Wrothgar has ways of learning even what you do not tell him,” said Shandor. “You may not have considered another possibility—there may be those here, or among the Outcastes, who do not approve of Errno’s attempt to enlist our aid. Perhaps they were hoping we would refuse, and now that we have agreed to lend aid to the Outcastes, they have become desperate. Perhaps they sent a message to Lord Wrothgar or his minions.”
“One of our people? Surely not! I cannot imagine that any Elf would betray us, no matter how adamantly they disagreed with our decision.”
“There are many folk of many races here,” said Shandor. “And Elves are not immune to dark emotions. There is also the possibility that the traitor lives among the Outcastes themselves. Perhaps the Company’s quest has motivated him to act—I find that very likely, actually. The location of the stronghold was revealed somehow.”
“I have faith in our people,” said Ordath. “We don't even know for certain that Wrothgar has been informed—again, this might be only a lucky coincidence for him. Regardless, we must send forces to intercept the army. I am not confident of the Outcastes’ skill in battle; we don’t even know how large their numbers are. And I do not believe that our Company will make enough of a difference to prevail. Our forces should leave in secret and travel by stealth. Wrothgar must not realize that we know of his intentions, or he may hasten his attack.”
Shandor shook his head. “I agree, but stealth will be difficult. I suggest we rely on speed. Our people are less adept at underground travel, and they are more likely to prevail if they are mounted. We'll travel in small groups by various paths, and always in daylight. Wrothgar's forces will not have enough information to realize our intent.” As he turned to leave, he looked back over his shoulder at her. “You do know where the stronghold is, don't you?”
Danté's funeral rite was without doubt the strangest ceremony Gaelen had ever attended. She was informed that it would last for three days, during which time the People would assemble in the equivalent of their Great Hall, observing the body, each expressing his or her individual sorrow.
No words would be spoken, and loud outcries were to be discouraged. It was more like a vigil than a funeral—a vigil of decay.
The near-constant undercurrents of weeping and moaning were quiet and restrained. The clans stood together, and some began a rhythmic swaying that struck Gaelen as eerie. Many tore their clothing, and a few even cut off the few precious strands of hair that were the outward mark of their transformation. These were placed at Danté's feet as he lay withered and dead on a platform of stone.
