A fog crept over the mountains and lay upon the low plains and hills. It was early morning of our second day out from the mining camp and we had been following the mountains north. This day, it was my turn to walk. Dew soaked my sandals and the lower half of my tunic, but I didn’t mind, for the air was fresh and cool and the walk invigorating. Semral accompanied me.
“So, why do you think Bratar turned against us?” I asked him.
The old hunter spat a short stream of white, as if expelling something distasteful.
“I will not mention that traitor’s name ever again,” he said. “He has done unspeakable things.”
“Did you know he ran from the can-rak when you called for his help back when you were injured?”
Semral stopped.
“Is this true?” He appeared astonished by the revelation.
“I saw it.”
Semral digested that awhile, and then we resumed walking. He spoke.
“So, it was you. You chased the can-rak off. I have heard the talk among the others. They say you command the beasts. This is true?”
“Yes, there is truth to that. A can-rak will do what I tell it to do, and I can control other animals under certain circumstances. After Lillatta exposed my training as a shaman, you might recall I revealed to you I also had a spirit animal. Well, that animal is the can-rak.”
Semral took that in as we walked on in silence.
“So why did you tell me it was the coward who had chased the can-rak away?” he finally asked.
“I felt at the time I had aggravated you enough with my claims of being trained in the skills of a hunter. Admitting having control over can-raks did not seem wise for me to disclose.”
The old warrior nodded.
“I am getting older,” he said, “and I would hope, wiser. It has been difficult for me to watch as the old ways fall into dust. Still, change must come, this I know. I believe Ra-ta has chosen you to bring that change, Sanyel, and I see only good in that.”
I could have answered but I had no words. I had not seen myself as an agent of change. I was only trying to live my life as my father taught me, to respect others and to do the right thing. Yet I recalled that incident where Ra-ta had thrown down a star from the night sky early in my desert exile. Had I accepted his challenge? Was I leading the way to something new?
“Has Ra-ta changed?” Semral then asked, though not addressing me. “Or does he simply want us to change, to question the old ways and beliefs?”
I had thought about such things. My assumption had always been that Ra-ta gave his immutable laws to our distant ancestors and required they obey them with unwavering faith. However, my eyes had opened to the possibility that human beings were incapable of following sacred truth without adding their own self-serving distortions. I believed there was one god, Ra-ta, but that he could appear in many disguises under many names. To the Cartu, Ra-ta was a female, Mim. To the early Spood, he was Sester. I believed they all spoke the same truths, only to have humans interpret them in ways unique to their various cultures.
It is man’s nature to change things to form to his desires. I would imagine written and oral histories are rarely in their original form, with parts added or discarded depending on the whims of what power controls at the time. I would guess religion is not immune to these manipulations, and that even if the core, sacred truths remain, that much of what passes for religious law bears instead the mark of man. Moreover, man is willful. The Spood had a god, Sester, but they threw him over for one that offered them a stimulating immediacy, a god in the present and in the physical. The people silenced Sester’s voice, only to get Gor-jar’s—but what wisdom ever came from the mouth of that hungry god?
My father said that a number of ancient stories described a time when many religions flourished. He said leaders and followers of those religions always insisted the path to God was through only what they believed. They claimed God whispered His words to their messenger, not to other groups claiming the same. They fought wars over who was right, even though each religion, ironically, stressed tolerance, and placing others above self. Each religion had factions that then propagated sub-factions, all claiming to have the ear of God and to know His mind.
My father said that the only way to understand God was to realize that God was love. He claimed no act or thought that did not have love as its purpose was of God. Love was the secret of God’s perfection. Man was imperfect only because of his inability to live life as a continuous act of love.
This divine truth and others of lesser, though complementary importance, were delivered through messengers, but were they ever truly understood? I would guess these messengers presented these truths to all who had the capacity to hear, but humans have free will and their minds are rarely in concert. Inevitably, the receivers will get some parts right and misinterpret others. As a result, my father said, spiritual messengers must return repeatedly to deliver the same information. If truth bearers gave us those messages today, would we still not truly understand, still not get them right?
And what of the messengers? Do all spiritual messengers and the messages they bring have equal value, or do some trump others in importance? Are all messengers one with Ra-ta’s mind or are some prey to human flaws, resulting in a distorted message? Is it the broad message or the details that matter?
These are all questions the seeker of truth must ask, my father said. He believed that sometimes people drown out the purest message. Many, he said, seem more drawn to words that regulate human behavior, and not to those that uplift and inspire.
And what happens when a religion no longer adequately serves? Religions formed during a particular cultural period must inevitably be products of their time. However, cultures evolve. If a religion clings to the values and customs of a time long gone, does it not risk becoming irrelevant?
In addition, what about the words? My father taught me that Sakitan stories involving the sacred often contained hidden symbolic meanings within them. Seeing past the literal is sometimes difficult, he told me, but the symbolism gives the words their true power. In the story of Kator and Brosel, for example, he said both were merely symbols. They represented man (Kator) in an eternal struggle with himself (Brosel). Kator (representing all humans) has a spiritual link (represented by fire) to Ra-ta (the promise of everlasting life, peace, and happiness), but must constantly battle his human weaknesses (Brosel). These offer only the promise of temporary, physical satisfaction, and they often cause the fire (the connection to Ra-ta) to weaken. By gaining control over his worldly desires and fears (Brosel), man can strengthen his connection with Ra-ta and keep the fire burning and growing. The notion that Brosel represents women and Kator men is erroneous. Kator and Brosel could easily switch positions. The story remains the same, one that sees human beings attempting to connect fully with Ra-ta, while needing to overcome the self-limiting thoughts and actions that hold them back and prevent them from fully knowing love (Ra-ta).
Still, I wonder why these stories carry such weight. I have always thought that what truly comes from Ra-ta you will feel in your heart, no matter if it goes against what people say the words mean or what others tell you is Ra-ta’s will. That is how God speaks to you—as an individual through the connecting fire within you. And often, I believe, when God speaks, there are no words necessary.
Over the years, I have asked my father many questions regarding man’s relationship with God. Such as why is there a deliberate separation between Ra-ta and humans? Why do both spiritual and physical realms exist?
My father said that perhaps Ra-ta wanted to explore beyond his own perfect nature, to discover the characteristics of imperfection, but could not experience that condition as himself. Perhaps Ra-ta needed a surrogate, a creation capable of living in an environment containing chaos, an environment rife with conflict and emotion. Ra-ta could retain a connection through spirit to his creations in this physical world and experience what occu
rred vicariously without being contaminated. Human beings would learn and grow in this unpredictable environment and through trial and error (though always with guidance) eventually find their way back to Ra-ta and the way of love both individually and collectively. Meanwhile, Ra-ta would receive from them all the positive things they had learned through this remarkable experiment in free will.
In any case, I believed a correction to entrenched beliefs was currently underway. Man cannot grow if he continuously follows an errant path. Ra-ta had seen the spiritual corruption and felt it was time for a refresher, that it was time to re-introduce the clean, immutable truths man was so fond of surrounding with clutter. Not that I felt I was the messenger. What did I know about the sacred? I grant that I might be a tool for Ra-ta to use, but I was certainly not the bringer of anything more than a sharp knife.
As the day progressed and the sun burned off the morning mists, I caught sight of the river. The mighty Raso was not so robust this time of year. Our summers blended into fall so gradually that it was often difficult to mark the transition. The blistering sun remained potent long into these autumn days. As a result, the old river was unraveling, down to a single, winding strand where once it had been a stoutly braided rope.
Here was where the river began. From high in the eastern Kodor Mountains the rain and snowmelt trickled or flooded its way down, gouging out a watercourse that widened as it pushed its way west. A boulder, which at most times of the year would have been invisible beneath raging waters, now sat exposed, like a bulky porse in a wading pool.
We crossed the shallow waters. Our drooves moved with labored strides, at times needing assistance to free themselves from sucking mud. On the other side, stretching north, were open grasslands and low hills. To the west, the waist-high grass met towering bennawood forests, into which the Raso entered and vanished from view. It was my first visit to this side of the river, and I saw nothing I hadn’t seen before.
We would follow the river west and hope to find the site where the Spood sowed their precious crops. The prisoner I had interrogated back at the mining camp guessed they would be farther north, so we sent scouting parties in that direction.
By nightfall, we had progressed a considerable distance. We camped on the plains at the edge of a forest, making sure we had a clear view of the low hills to the north. Izzy returned from a scouting foray to report something of interest. She had picked up sign of a can-rak’s presence—a sartel kill with distinctive indicators showing a predator had taken it down with ruthless ferocity.
My heart thumped rapidly beneath my tunic. A can-rak would prove to be a considerable upgrade to our present strength as a fighting unit. I wanted to comb the hills and track it down, but Semral suggested waiting until daylight.
When daylight arrived, we were in trouble. From the hills to our north an army had sprouted and aligned itself in a formidable array before us. Spears gleamed in the morning light, held by soldiers in red-trimmed vests astride drooves that stomped and bleated. Outnumbered and overmatched, everyone was certain our doom had arrived with an irrefutable certainty.
As I surveyed the mass of troops idly awaiting orders, my mood grew unaccountably giddy. This was what I had hoped for, the vast Spood army all in one place. My compatriots forgot that I possessed a formidable weapon. I would demonstrate its full power and crush the Spood presence in this country conclusively.
“Why don’t you ride out there and attract their attention,” I suggested to Lillatta. “Bring about twenty or thirty others with you and try to make them chase you. I want them all close in together, and then—well, then I’ll make them wish they had never come to this land.”
I told Lillatta my entire plan and she was eager to view it unfold. Her riders moved out onto the plains, trotting their steeds toward the stagnant army of the hills. The group rode until safety required they veer left. They traversed the length of the Creet lines, taunting all the while. I judged the troop count to be at least the three thousand soldiers I expected and not much more. The Creet soldiers were fidgety, eager to run down and crush these pestering bugs. I could see them pulling at their drooves’ reins, shifting back and forth in place. Still, no orders came to attack. What were they waiting for?
Then, the gate opened. Down from the grassy mounds the insects coursed, buzzing with anticipation of the slaughter to come. I knew they were aware of the numbers opposing them. They had scouted us and they must have figured they had a sizable advantage. Lillatta’s taunters were not the sole target. They were coming for us all.
Semral looked over at me with consternation. He knew the plan, but was uncertain of its viability.
“Is this going to work?”
“I certainly hope so.” I admit it was not the most definitive answer for one seeking certitude in the face of annihilation.
Lillatta’s riders came in fast. Three thousand drooves, as tightly bunched as they could get, pursued. I heard the ground thunder, felt the oncoming wave threatening to inundate us and wash us away. The time was now. I touched the droove bone dangling from my bracelet.
“Creet drooves, rise up and dump your riders,” I spoke.
Pandemonium erupted on the plains. The drooves braked at my command, throwing a great number of riders over their necks. Then, the drooves reared. From thousands of throats emanated an ear assaulting, discordant symphony of bleats and snorts. Riders fell, tossed from their mounts as if their very touch was odious to the beasts. Many barely hung on, jerking and bouncing as the drooves twisted and arched trying to eject them. Finally, a determined jerk dislodged the last stubborn trooper from his seat.
“Creet drooves, surround the Creet soldiers and do not let any escape your circle,” I ordered. “Close in so tightly that they cannot move.”
At my command, the drooves spread out to surround the baffled warriors. Creet confusion expanded as the beasts closed in around them. A few realized the impending predicament and tried to break out, swinging their blades at the nearest droove in their path.
To my surprise, other drooves came to the aid of the ones attacked and viciously slammed the offending soldiers off their feet and back into the fast-closing interior. Within minutes, the trap shut tight, with the captives unable to lift their arms or move more than a finger’s length. I sprinted over from my position, not more than a hundred paces away, and heard a commotion from within the circle. Soldiers shouted that they could not breathe, so I eased the drooves back a bit while informing the Creet that they were now prisoners and to surrender their weapons.
As always, there are those who deny the certainty of their plight and refuse to submit. After another round of droove-induced breathlessness, there was unanimous compliance to my demands. When I released the pressure, the Creet soldiers followed with alacrity my command to remove and drop their spears, swords, and knives into a communal pile.
I noticed one soldier attempting to shield his face and tried to get a better view of him. Others blocked my vision, but then I recognized that overly muscled frame and those less-than attractive facial features. Of course it was only natural the most despised man in the history of the Sakita tribe would try to avoid detection. Too late.
“Look everyone, it’s Bratar,” I called.
He snapped his head around to my voice, with panic plain on his visage. He tried to run, but Semral and another chased him down. I saw Lillatta push her way past onlookers. She stared with a focused intensity at our catch.
As the Creet finished relinquishing their weapons, we sat them down and put them under guard. We brought Bratar forward for questioning. Some of the old bravado remained, though clearly only a mask for his fear. Everyone expected me to do the interrogating. They had seen my plan work to perfection and they were now more than willing to accept my leadership. How far we had come from the days when that would have been unthinkable. I stood about five paces from Bratar and spoke.
“Been a while,” I
noted.
“Not long enough, selate!”
I ignored the provocation and was about to begin my questioning, but Bratar had more to say.
“They have you speaking for them now?” he said with contemptuous disbelief. “How did you manage that? And how is it you are even back here? I would have thought the razoks would be picking your bones clean by now.”
“Well, I just had to come back. Wanted to check on you, to see how your jaw felt.”
Bratar scowled. “I’ll teach you to—”
“Teach me to what? To take down a porse? To bully children? To wear slop?—which, by the way, I thought was a very natural look for you.”
Bratar growled and stepped forward menacingly, but two men firmly held his arms.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “You tell us what we want to know and I promise we will give you the same chance I was given. We offer you banishment in place of execution.”
A sly glint of hope appeared on Bratar’s face.
“All right, I’ll talk.”
“Where is Borsar?” I asked, not wishing to waste any more time.
“He’s somewhere, planting crops no doubt.”
Bratar’s derisive reply indicated he was not too keen on Spood agricultural interests. At least he was answering my questions, even if evasively.
“How did you happen to find us?” I queried.
“We have been watching you ever since you crossed the river. You never even knew we were following you.”
That was partially true. I had sensed their presence, but he was correct that we had not known exactly where they were.
I studied Bratar for a moment. For a long while, I’d been wondering what causes a man to do what Bratar did, to betray his people. I was even more curious about the cowardice that seemed to run freely in his veins.
“Why did you flee from the can-rak when Semral called you to help him?” I asked.
Bratar went pale. The Sakitans, and even the Creet, straightened to attention with the accusation, so casually delivered. Bratar’s anger flared.
“You lie! I told what happened. I chased the can-rak away.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “because as I recall, I chased the can-rak away. I seem to remember you hiding behind the rocks and then running off somewhere when Semral needed you.”
The Sakitans were buzzing. Except for Semral, no one was aware of my role in the can-rak drama, only that I had patched up Semral afterward.
“You weren’t there,” Bratar said, as if to convince himself that were true. “I chased it away, I . . . You weren’t . . .”
Bratar’s words trailed away. His eyes registered a fearful insight as he glanced around at the riveted spectators. His fellow Sakitans believed—no—they knew! They knew he was a coward.
We all understood his panic over the exposed secret. Sakitan men prided themselves on their fearlessness. Being a traitor was one thing, but a coward was quite another. In his mind, it had to be worse, because true men would never let a coward associate with them, not even the Spood.
He now glared at me, the ideal person to blame for his current predicament.
“You did this! I’ll kill you!” Then, with all the power his rage could muster, he broke free of those restraining him and charged.
I readied myself for the attack, intending only to knock Bratar down as I had back when he bullied Satu not so long ago. Before Bratar arrived, however, Lillatta cut in front of me. Bratar’s momentum halted. He grunted and stood still for a moment, then staggered back. A wet stain spread across the grottis symbol stitched into his Creet vest. He stared down in disbelief at the protruding knife, and then looked up into Lillatta’s calm eyes before releasing a moan and sinking to his knees. He flopped sideways onto the ground and was silent.
Without a trace of rancor in her voice, Lillatta stood over the still form and said, “That was for Kalor,” and then she turned and walked away.
We added Bratar’s corpse to the hundred or so others collected from the plains. They were victims of awkward falls when the drooves dumped them, or of the beasts' lethal, stomping feet. We torched the pile and black smoke rose, leaving the air acrid and unpleasant. I wondered if any of these Creet dead would find their way to Mimnon, though I was aware they didn’t recognize that place as their heaven. I suspected they would not. My guess was all, including Bratar, would soon find themselves drowning forever in Fuld’s black waters.
As the flames crackled and the smoke billowed, I realized we had a problem. There were too many prisoners. We did not have enough people to guard them, and it would be impossible to take them with us to find Borsar and his camp.
I would not kill them. Several suggested I do so, insisting it the only prudent move. They were no longer aggressors, however, so in my mind that would simply be murder, though I was aware how fine a line that had become. I could set them free, as I had the twenty back at the mining site, but freeing an entire army did not seem wise.
I had no choice; they would have to come with us. The drooves could herd them, I realized. I would have to reintroduce commands to the animals every twenty minutes, but I did not see that as a problem. I wanted our army, all five hundred of us, free to repel any attack, though in truth we were not that number, for many women and children with us were incapable of fighting. Drooves guarding the prisoners would allow the fighters to fight. We had plenty of extra drooves, so everyone could ride. We would let our party choose additional weapons from the Creet ones collected and then destroy the leftovers.
We soon discovered Borsar’s whereabouts. With nearly three thousand prisoners to choose from, it had not been hard to get the intelligence. You can always count on finding at least one loudmouth who can’t keep secrets. Borsar was directly north of us, along with four thousand slaves under the watch of less than a thousand Creet soldiers.
The trip was a day’s journey marked by slow trudges up low hills, steady marches over level plains, and avoiding forests that might separate us. Men watched our flanks and scouts apprised us of what was ahead. I shadowed the drooves, making sure to keep them focused on prisoner containment.
A whiff of something in the warm breeze caught my attention. We approached yet another line of hills, and the odor I detected was not of our making. It was wood smoke—bennawood to be exact—that sweet, comforting aroma as familiar to me as Ra-ta’s daily rising. Others sniffed it as well, and the news swiftly bounced from ear to ear.
I warned the Creet captives not to make a sound under penalty of a droove unleashing. Izzy and Semral scurried over, reporting that scouts had confirmed the presence of Spood fields over these hills. I risked leaving the drooves unchaperoned and made my way to a hilltop. Crawling on my stomach, I inched myself over the crest to get a view.
Clearly defined squares and rectangles formed a patchwork that extended beyond my sight. The Spood were planting, and I supposed that wasn’t unusual, since our climate allowed for year-round growing. Slaves worked the plots, seeding the turned soil in some, spading virgin grasses in others, all under the watchful gaze of the Creet. To my left I located a droove pen, fully stocked. My attention, though, quickly focused to the right, where I spotted soldiers assembling what appeared to be a grottis.
I strained my eyes to make out details, and then I saw a man exit a wooden hut and approach the working men. It was Borsar, the fat priest, the murderer. His red hair was longer, but there was no mistaking that portly frame. What unfortunate victim did he plan to kill today?
I retreated down the hill and noticed the drooves drifting away from guarding the prisoners, reverting to their instinctual urge to find the best grazing. The Creet had not taken advantage, probably because human guards were still within sight. However, what would happen when the battle to come distracted us? I would have to bluff the captive Creet into remaining only spectators.
For now, I gathered my trusted friends to devise a plan of a
ttack. I had observed the slaves and guards spread out across the entirety of the seeded expanse they worked. That could be a problem. Out on the open plains we had managed to group our enemy together. Could we pull off a similar feat? Or should we do as we had at the mine, let the penned drooves loose to decide the issue with dirty and bloody work?
On the other side of these hills were all that remained of the combined Sakita and Raab tribes. There still might be some in Grell, I granted, but I was certain this was the majority, four thousand. Counting our five hundred, it was all that endured of two proud peoples. Our stories say the Sakitans once numbered ten thousand, before a disease reduced our ranks to one-tenth that figure. We had been building those numbers back up over the years, only to encounter the Spood.
I’m sure the Raab could tell a similar tale. Thinking of the Raab reminded me that I wanted to keep a lookout for Javen and his companions. I wondered if they were observing from somewhere nearby.
“How do you want to approach this?” Izzy was asking. “They have all the drooves penned up, so I say we let them loose to pick off the Creetans one-by-one. It worked at the mine.”
I was afraid I had no better solution. Killing or injuring all these Spood no longer appealed to me, but what choice did I have? In my mind, the Spood were finished as conquerors. I was certain the ten can-raks continued to raise havoc on their home grounds. I was hoping across the rest of the world that returning, freed slaves were fomenting revolt. This pocket was my personal concern. I would do what it took to make the Spood disappear from these lands. If that meant Creet annihilation, so be it.
“So, what’s down there?” Lillatta asked. “What are we up against?”
“I estimate less than a thousand Creet,” I answered. “I would say maybe around seven hundred. I saw only about twenty or thirty priests, one of them Borsar. I didn’t notice any Spood women or children, same as at the mine, so that’s good.”
“What about Sakitans and Raab?” Semral asked.
“They are all there,” I said. “Four thousand, by my guess. There are women and children, and it looks like the Spood are forcing them all to work in the fields along with the men. They have them shackled at the ankles, like at the mine. They must know seven hundred is a small number to watch over four thousand, so they’re being careful.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Izzy asked again.
“We will have to let the drooves loose on the guards in the fields,” I said. “I see no other way. Meanwhile, I want to take a small force to get Borsar. It looks like he’s planning a sacrifice, and I won’t let that happen. He has only about ten guards with him, and he’s quite a distance from the nearest fields, so we shouldn’t have any interference.”
Our plan was simple and direct. For the greater good, the Creet in the fields would have to be sacrificed. Was being born into this brutal Spood culture their fault? Perhaps not, but they fully embraced it, so a price had to be paid. This was war, after all.
While the drooves occupied the soldiers, I would take Izzy, Lillatta, Semral, and a few others to go after Borsar. Brilna refused to stay behind without me, so I was allowing her to tag along. The rest would either remain to watch the current prisoners or go down to assist the attacking drooves. The end of Spood influence in these lands was in our grasp, and I did not intend to release that grip.
**
~~TWENTY-SEVEN~~