Chapter 25
The fire burned while she lay dying. The fire burned, and the smoke of burning children filled her failing lungs. This grim moment was the beginning of her people becoming a nation, the beginning of their survival, but Birsae ak Mondar could not find it in herself to rejoice. The fires burned, and on those fires lay the bodies of the Clan's warriors, its daughters and sons. The fires burned, and the Clan's strength bled away.
She mourned. It did not matter that these first deaths were nothing more than markers in the game of war. Her faulty Talent was strong enough for her to have looked into the hearts of the dead when they still lived. Only three had been people of great worth to the Clan. The rest were good for little more than creating fond memories in the minds of others. They would be missed by few, soon forgotten, but Birsae did mourn.
She gasped. Pains ran through her chest, constricting her heart, running up into her left arm. She felt weak, knew she was pale, and her breath seeped from her lungs in faint panting grunts. This was the death she had foreseen for herself, the death she had prayed would come to her so she would not see the best of her people fall. She had no doubt they would fall. The brightest sparks of the Clan's youth, its leaders, and its bravest warriors would fall beneath the magic of the invaders. Almost all the elite of an entire generation would disappear, but the dregs of those remaining were the ones who truly mattered. They were the ones who would change her people, drag them up from the savagery they embraced and lead them into the ever changing world. They were the ones who would embrace, plow, and hammer, the ones who would learn the secrets of scratches on paper, and they were the ones who would learn the intricacies of statesmanship. The pathway to this learning was bloody and painful, but it was the only path she could find that led to something less than the total destruction of her people.
Releasing a shallow breath, Birsae let her head fall to the side so she could see the man who would destroy her people.
"Call me sick," Haarod Beech said cheerfully, "but I enjoy the smell of burning flesh. There's something about it that just refreshes the soul." He idly twirled Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac in the same manner he would have played with a common stick. Birsae winced as another pain raced through her. She wanted to cry as Beech spun his toy once more. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac struck against a tent pole and bounced off. A small chip of wood flew free. Birsae groaned as her heart gave another flutter, but she did not groan over her failing heart. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac was a sacred and ancient treasure of her people. In a thousand years not a scratch had been allowed to mar its holy surface.
"Oops." Beech studied the length of wood. "Looks like I broke off one of the squiggly lines. Really, Mondar, you people had best do a better job when you make these things. Not durable, just not durable at all."
Bersae fought to draw in a deeper breath. Her lungs were unwilling to comply, but her will proved to be the stronger force. She drew in an entire half breath before stars began swirling before her eyes.
"Why?" she managed to breathe out.
"Why?" Beech looked at her curiously. "Why what? Why am I sitting in here with you, watching you die while the party is going on outside? That one is easy. You are the Clan's last Shaman. You are sacred, and I am powerful. I have all sorts of ideas for the prophesies you are about to make just before you kick off. Sorry old gal, but you are going to help me run this war even after I shovel the hot coals over your smoking corpse."
Bersae managed to shake her head no.
Beech released a short barking laugh. "Ah, you want to know the other why. Why am I running this war at all? I bet you've gathered that it's not out of concern for all those dear, sweet people out there, the ones who smell like rancid grease and think dried ears on a string is a fashion statement. No indeed. I'm running this little war for two reasons only. You see, I like to kill people. It's a rush. Giving death is a thrill like I never knew until I turned up a shovel full of dirt while digging a fire pit and came up with my very own Talent Stone. It's really great to be able to kill people when you know there's not a single thing that can be done to you." Beech smiled and spat. The spittle landed on her face.
"Sorry about that," he said. "I'll clean it off once you are nicely dead. And you know, since you are dying I'll continue being honest with you. I do have a second reason for what I'm doing. In my opinion, it is a very fine reason. You see, when I am not killing people I like telling them what to do. I like having them obey me. Right now I can do that very easily as a Clan General. It'll be even easier when this war is over, and I rule them all. Really, Mondar, there's nobody who can stop me. Not when I have my Stone and my Sword and you are dead, there isn't."
Bersae could not help herself. The impulse was mean, and it was petty, and it was beneath her dignity at this moment when she was so close to drawing in her last breath. None of those issues mattered. She tried to moisten her dry cracked lips with her dry and swollen tongue. Straining, she found that her arm was almost too weak to lift. Her fingers barely managed to pluck at his sleeve.
Beech looked at her irritably. She tried to whisper, but the words would not come while the new future unfolded before her. It became clearer as her heart trembled its last, and her lungs deflated, never to fill again. The entire future of her people and this man opened to her as her sight failed and her eyes closed. Trying to speak, she found that she had no breath. She had no strength, but she needed to try--if for no other reason than the satisfaction it would give her.
Her lips trembled, parted, and then quivered in a feeble attempt at speech. Little sound came forth, perhaps too little for him to hear, but she knew the content of the words she shaped.
"There is someone," she whispered. "The Chosen. Bringer. He will stop you."
Beech looked at her with arrogant incomprehension. Contempt for her and all her people gleamed in his eyes.
And then the earthly light was taken from her own eyes--but the other light--that glorious golden light of the One God shone before her mind and beckoned her home. She let loose her corporeal form and followed where it led. She died, but she died satisfied because of that last pointless act. One small act of defiance gave her death some greater meaning.