Draven's Light (Tales of Goldstone Wood) Read online

  The girl found her footsteps slowing as the Kind One led her toward that stump. She stopped while still many paces from it and refused to go nearer, so that he was obliged to let go of her hand. Though she couldn’t have told why if asked, she knew that she did not like that stump. There was something . . . something wrong about it. Something even the light of the lantern could not heal.

  The Kind One, letting her stand where she stopped, approached the lantern. “I have only just made a start,’ he said, “but you might find it interesting.” He bent and picked up the lantern by its handle, lifting it up and shining its light more clearly on the stump’s surface.

  The girl gasped. There was a face in the wood.

  Among her tribe there were many who carved and made little trinkets out of wood or bronze or clay. And, of course, she had so recently seen and admired other lovely carvings done by the Kind One’s gifted hand. But never before had she seen a face rendered so lifelike in wood-caught immobility. She stared at it, wonder-struck, and forgot her dislike of the stump itself. Without realizing she did so, she drew closer, stepping into the lantern-glow. The light filled her eyes so that they shone with an understanding beyond rational thought.

  She turned to the Kind One, and she wasn’t afraid of him when she asked, “Who is that?”

  “He was called Draven,” said the Kind One. “He was a man I knew. Long ago by the years as counted in your world. But it seems only yesterday to me.”

  “I don’t know him,” said the girl. “I don’t know his name.”

  “You know him by another name,” said the Kind One. “He had three names in his lifetime. I knew him as Draven.”

  “When did you meet him?” asked the girl, turning from the Kind One to study the face above her once more. He seemed young to her. An adult, certainly, but not an old one. Not so old as her father, for sure, nor her mother. Definitely not so old as either of the Brothers, though they had a way about them that seemed both youthful and ancient at the same time. She thought the face in the wood oddly familiar, though she couldn’t say why. “Was he a man of Kallias?”

  “No,” said the Kind One. “He was not. He was born of the tribe across the river.”

  “There is no tribe across the river,” said the girl.

  “Not anymore. But there used to be.”

  “What happened to them?”

  The Kind One, still holding his lantern high, smiled a mysterious sort of smile that held many secrets. “It is a long story,” he said. “I doubt that I can tell it all in one afternoon, not with the work I have ahead of me. But I’ll make you a pact, Iulia’s daughter: If you will agree to return with water for me tomorrow and for the several days following, I will do what I can to spin out this tale for you. What do you say?”

  All fear forgotten, at least for the moment, the girl sat down before the ugly stump and the young face carved in wood. She sat in the light of the silver lantern, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand. As the Kind One took up his hammer and chisel and began, ever so carefully, to chip away at the old wood, she listened to what he said. He began in the traditional manner of all great tale-spinners:

  “Let me tell you a story.”

  He heard the drums in his dreams, distant but drawing ever nearer. He had heard them before and wondered if the time of his manhood had come. But with the approach of dawn, the drums always faded away and he woke to the world still a child. Still a boy.

  But this night, the distant drums were louder, stronger. Somehow he knew they were not concocted of his sleeping fancy. No, even as he slept he knew these were real drums, and he recognized the beat: The beat of death. The beat of blood.

  The beat of a man’s heart.

  He woke with a start, his leg throbbing where it had just been kicked. It was not the sort of awakening he had longed for these last two years and more. He glared from his bed up into the face of his sister, who stood above him, balancing her weight on a stout forked branch tucked under her left shoulder.

  “Ita,” the boy growled, “what are you doing here? Go back to the women’s hut!”

  His sister made a face at him, but he saw, even by the moonlight streaming through cracks in the thatch above, that her eyes were very round and solemn. Only then did he notice that the drumbeats of his dream were indeed still booming deep in the woods beyond the village fires. He sat up then, his heart thudding its own thunderous pace.

  “A prisoner,” Ita said, shifting her branch so that she might turn toward the door. “The drums speak of a prisoner. They’re bringing him even now.” She flashed a smile down at him, though it was so tense with anxiety it could hardly be counted a smile at all. “Gaho, your name!”

  The boy was up and out of his bed in a moment, reaching for a tunic and belt. His sister hobbled back along the wall but did not leave, though he wished she would. He wished she would allow him these few moments before the drums arrived in the village. The drums that beat of one man’s death . . . and one man’s birth.

  His name was Gaho. But by the coming of dawn, if the drums’ promise were true, he would be born again in blood and bear a new name.

  Hands shaking with what he desperately hoped wasn’t fear, he tightened his belt and searched the room for his sickle blade. He saw the bone handle, white in the moonlight, protruding from beneath his bed pile, and swiftly took it up. The bronze gleamed dully, like the carnivorous tooth of an ancient beast.

  A shudder ran through his sister’s body. Gaho, sensing her distress, turned to her. She grasped her supporting branch hard, and the smile was gone from her face. “Gaho,” she said, “will you do it?”

  “I will,” said Gaho, his voice strong with mounting excitement.

  But Ita reached out to him suddenly, catching his weapon hand just above the wrist. “I will lose you,” she said. “My brother . . . I will lose you!”

  “You will not. You will lose only Gaho,” said the boy, shaking her off, gently, for she was not strong. Without another word, he ducked through the door of his small sod house—one he had built for himself but a year before in anticipation of his coming manhood—and stood in the darkness of Rannul Village, eyes instinctively turning to the few campfires burning. The drums were very near now, and he could see the shadows of waking villagers moving about the fires, building up the flames in preparation for what must surely follow. He felt eyes he could not see turning to his house, turning to him. He felt the question each pair of eyes asked in silent curiosity: Will it be tonight?

  Tonight or no night.

  Grasping the hilt of his weapon with both hands, Gaho strode to the dusty village center, which was beaten down into hard, packed earth from years of meetings and matches of strength held in this same spot. Tall pillars of aged wood ringed this circle, and women hastened to these, bearing torches which they fit into hollowed-out slots in each pillar. Soon the village center was bright as noonday, but with harsh red light appropriate for coming events.

  Gaho stood in the center of that light, his heart ramming in his throat though his face was a stoic mask. All the waking village were gathered now, men, women, and children, standing just beyond the circle, watching him.

  And the drums came up from the river, pounding in time to the tramp of warriors’ feet. Then the warriors themselves were illuminated by the ringing torches, their faces anointed in blood, their heads helmed with bone and bronze, their shoulders covered in hides of bear, wolf, and boar. Ten men carried tight skin drums, beating them with their fists. They entered the center first, standing each beneath one of the ringing pillars. Other warriors followed them, filling in the gaps between.

  Then the chieftain, mighty Gaher, appeared. He carried his heavy crescent ax in one hand, and Gaho saw that blood stained its edge—indeed, blood spattered the blade from tip to hilt and covered the whole of the chieftain’s fist. Gaher strode into the circle, and the boy saw more blood in his beard. But he also saw the bright, wolfish smile, and knew for certain that his sister had been correct. The night
of naming had come.

  “My son,” said the chief, saluting Gaho with upraised weapon.

  “My father,” said Gaho, raising his sickle blade in return.

  “Are you ready this night to die and live again?” asked the chief. His voice carried through the shadows, and every one of the tribe heard it, as did any and all listening beasts of forest and field surrounding. “Are you ready this night for the spilling of blood that must flow before life may begin?”

  Gaho drew a deep breath, putting all the strength of his spirit into his answer. “I am ready, Father.”

  Gaher’s smile grew, the torchlight flashing upon his sharpened canines. He turned then and motioned to the darkness beyond the torchlight.

  And the sacrifice was brought forward.

  At first Gaho could discern little of the man who staggered between two warriors as they dragged him. The rush and roar in his ears was such that it drowned out all other perception. But he shook himself and focused his energies. Indeed, he must be as focused as the razor edge of his blade. He forced himself to take in what he could of this man who would provide his due bloodletting.

  The man wore a sack over his head, but the rest of him was stripped down to nothing but his rough-woven trousers. Even the leg-wraps had been removed, leaving the loose trousers to billow about his calves like a child’s garments. His chest was bare, and Gaho saw the bleeding wound in his shoulder. Already the bloodletting had begun.

  Who is he? Gaho wanted to ask. But perhaps it was better not to know. He was not a man of Rannul, and that alone mattered. No man of Rannul would kill one of his own, not even for so important a ceremony. He had probably been fetched from over the river, some farmer caught sleeping too far from the safety of his village’s fires and the protection of his chieftain’s warriors.

  Gaho squared his shoulders even as the prisoner was dragged before him and forced to his knees. Chief Gaher stood at Gaho’s side and indicated the prisoner with a wave of his hand. “Will you slay him thus?”

  Gaho considered for only a breath. It would be a worthy bloodletting, but he did not feel it right to take his man’s name so easily. He shook his head. “I will not. I will fight,” he said.

  Gaher nodded his satisfaction at his son’s answer. He had likely dealt the prisoner’s wound himself, making certain he was disabled. No reason to risk the life of a chieftain’s son. But a fight was still good, a noble answer.

  So, at a word from their chief, the warriors holding the prisoner stripped away the sack over his head. Gaho looked into the face of the man he would kill.

  His heart stopped. He had not expected the prisoner to be so young. Near his own age, in fact, perhaps a little older. A fierce terror darted from the young man’s eyes, and he stared up at Gaho as though gazing upon the blackest of all devils. There was a gag in his mouth, and he strained against it like a dog worrying a muzzle. One of the warriors slipped a knife up alongside the prisoner’s head and cut the gag loose.

  The prisoner gasped, jerking away from the knife. But he rallied himself, drawing a deep breath and holding his torso upright even as he knelt before his enemies. “Unbind me and set me free!” he cried, his voice thick with an accent that confirmed he came from over the river.

  “We will unbind you, certainly,” said Gaher, motioning again to his warriors. They hesitated, but only briefly, before cutting the ropes securing the prisoner’s arms. Immediately the prisoner leapt to his feet, turning this way and that. But he was ringed by his enemies, all of them armed and deadly. There was no use in running.

  The prisoner turned back to Gaher, his jaw tightly clenched. Then he said, “My father will not stand for this. It will mean war between Kahorn and Rannul. They will set upon you with fury, demanding the life of every man and boy. Your women will weep with the desolation of widowhood and bereavement, crying out for their own deaths!”

  Gaho knew then who stood before him. This was no farmer. This was Callix, son of Callor, prince of the Kahorn tribe.

  How far had his father’s men penetrated into the territory across the river to gain such a prize? It did not seem possible, for the nearest Kahorn village was a day’s march at least beyond the banks of River Hanna. Could it be that this prince of Kahorn had wandered into Rannul territory? A fortunate chance! Not one to be missed.

  But Gaho felt his gut sickening.

  “Men of Kahorn will be upon your shores before sunset three days hence!” the prisoner-prince declared, gesticulating wildly with his right arm. His left hung limp at his side, blood from the shoulder wound dripping down in slow stain. But he glared at Gaher with princely fervor. “You bring war upon your people.”

  Gaher stepped forward, drawing a knife from his belt. This he tossed to the dirt at the prisoner’s feet even as he leaned in to growl in his face: “Good.”

  With that, he turned his back upon the prisoner and strode to the edge of the village center. His warriors backed away as well, leaving Gaho alone in the middle of the torchlight, facing the Prince of Kahorn, who panted and stared around him in disbelieving horror. At last the prisoner’s staring eyes fell upon Gaho.

  Gaho, who was taller already than most men in Rannul. Gaho, who, though he bore a boy’s name, boasted the breadth and strength of a bear. Gaho, proud son of Gaher, a fellow prince. A deadly enemy.

  Gaho gazed down at his victim, who was half a head shorter than he. He indicated the knife at his feet. “Arm yourself and prepare for death,” he said.

  The prisoner, who had been pale before, now looked sickly grey. Not even the torchlight could warm his skin. He stooped, however, and took up the blade. “Is this how warriors of Rannul get their sport?” he demanded through white lips. “Hewing at wounded men?”

  Gaho took a step forward then paused. He glanced first at the bronze blade in the prisoner’s hand, then at the great extent of his own sickle sword. He had chosen to fight, to let blood in combat and thus achieve his manhood. But with such a disparity of weapons and strength, could he truly claim manhood following such a bloodletting?

  The women of Rannul gasped as Gaho tossed his blade to land in the dirt behind him. The warriors on the border of the village center tightened their grips on their own weapons. But Gaher only smiled even as his son, unarmed, began to approach the prisoner.

  The Kahorn prince’s gaze darted to the discarded sickle blade then back to Gaho’s face. If anything, his fear redoubled. What sort of foe was this, who did not fear to go unarmed into combat? The prisoner clutched the blade in his good hand and, moving in a half-crouch, circled round, trying to discover an opening for a lunge. Gaho, though beardless, had the look of a warrior, and the prisoner had seen enough of war, even in his short years, to know better than to let his guard drop.

  Suddenly the prisoner attacked, his blade upraised and slashing. If he had not been weak from blood loss, he may have met his mark. But Gaho, moving with surprising speed despite his bulk, twisted to one side and brought both fists down together between the prisoner’s shoulders. The breath knocked from his body, the prisoner landed in the dust at Gaho’s feet. Struggling to draw air into his lungs, he rolled to one side, lashing out at Gaho’s leg with the knife.

  Gaho, however, leapt back and, with a single kick, sent the knife flying through the air to land well out of the prisoner’s reach. He flung himself upon the prisoner, his fists striking at his face and chest. The prisoner raised his good arm in defense and managed to land a kick in Gaho’s stomach.

  Gaho staggered back, clutching his gut, and his eyes flashed. The heat of bloodlust began to take hold, roaring in his veins. He saw not the living prisoner but the dead sacrifice that must be made before the light of dawn.

  With a roar that was scarcely human he lunged at the prisoner, who was getting to his feet. The prisoner avoided Gaho’s clutching arms, but only just, and one fist caught him in the side. He staggered and went down on one knee then used the momentum of his fall to avoid yet another swinging blow. Gaho kicked him, sending him sprawling.<
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  The prisoner writhed, desperate to turn himself around to face his enemy. But Gaho was atop him, pressing him facedown into the dirt. The prisoner’s fear-filled eyes lit upon the dagger only a few handbreadths beyond his reach. He kicked and flailed, succeeding in landing a blow on Gaho’s arm.

  Gaho did not know himself anymore. He knew only the surging in his heart, the pound of blood in his ears as forceful as any drumbeat. He could feel his adulthood, so very near now, just on the edge of his grasp. He would be a warrior. He would forgo the name of a child and take up his man’s name, standing at the right hand of his mighty father. After this, his first blood, he would march into battle and take the lives of many warriors, thus proving his strength and his courage again and again.

  Only one thing stood in the way of this dream and its fulfillment. Only this prisoner scrabbling in the dust, his life a thin thread strained to the breaking point. One swift slice and . . .

  Gaho drove his knee into the prisoner’s wounded shoulder. The prisoner gave a thin cry, and for an instant ceased to struggle. Then his efforts redoubled, his good arm stretching to its full extent, striving for the dagger that lay now only a finger’s width away. Leaning across his prey, Gaho plucked up the dagger. He could have slit the prisoner’s throat then, but that did not seem to him the right way to usher in his manhood. He preferred to look into his enemy’s eyes.

  He lifted his weight from the prisoner’s shoulder, standing back to allow the prisoner to scramble free and upright. Panting heavily, almost spent, the prisoner got to his feet and faced Gaho. His limbs shuddered, and his face was streaked with dirt and sweat and blood. Everything about his stance bespoke defeat. Everything except his eyes, which flashed with a prince’s pride.