threshel
First Post
Introduction Part Four
The good humor they felt flittered away like a startled flock of birds; smiles dropped and eyes cast down. The music still played, oddly echoing in the hollow. Hurgen scowled. How long was that song? Did the damned thing have an end? Beside him Carild’s eyes fluttered and opened, squinting at the light. He moaned in pain and his hands went to cradle his aching head. His movements were slow and clumsy, and he fumbled with the bandage on his head and the rags in his ears. Hurgen grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms down.
“Don’t fool with it, boy. Rest easy.” Behind him, Tojon and Hili emerged from their wagon. He heard Tojon speaking, too low to make out the words. He didn’t turn, as Carild was still struggling to mess with his wrappings. His eyes, although open, remained unfocused. The boy was delirious. Hurgen could see that his injured son would require constant tending. “Ilan! Get down here and help me.” But the figure that dropped beside him wasn’t Ilan; it was Hili. Her round face was still puffy around the eyes from her weeping, and she wore the same unhappy expression as the rest of them. She dropped a satchel to the ground beside her.
“Hold his arms down, Papa.” Her voice still quavered, but her hands worked steady as she pulled a roll of bandages from her satchel and wrapped Carild’s entire head, winding down over his ears. This she tied off in a large knot on his forehead, one that was tight enough to foil his confused fumbling. She turned to Hurgen, her eyes steady. “You can let go now.” Hurgen just looked at her. Though she wasn’t as stout as his late wife, and beside Tojon looked positively fragile, Hurgen could see his beloved Elaana in that steady stare. It captivated him for a moment, a moment that made his eyes wet and his throat bob. Hili’s smooth forehead creased in concern, and her hands came up to check the scraps of cloth in Hurgen’s ears. “Papa? Have they worked loose? Let me see…” Hurgen dropped his son’s arms and caught her hands in his, never looking away from her eyes.
“They’re fine.” He smiled a small smile. “You just…” The words caught, and he harrumphed to clear his throat. “Take care of my Carild. We’ll return as soon as we’re able.” Hili blushed a pretty pink and looked away, but nodded. Hurgen stood; wincing at the popping in his knees, and took up his maul. He spared another look at Carild, still fumbling, and wondered if his boy’s mind would return to him. His wrinkles ravines again, Hurgen turned away to continue up the trail.
Looking up the sharp rise out of the bowl, Hurgen saw why Ilan didn’t answer his call. Tojon and Ilan had already climbed the hill and were looking up the trail. Tojon was doing most of the talking from the look of it, and was pointing forward. Ilan was nodding and adding points of his own. Hurgen considered calling them for help up the steep ascent, but flipped his maul and gripped it by the head like a cane. Planting its handle in the loamy hill, he began to steadily climb. It was laborious work, and his breathing quickly drowned out what little he could hear. He kept his eyes in front of him, wary for unstable surfaces. A trembling in the edges of the leaves made him look up to see his boys thundering down the hill to intercept him. Ilan grabbed at his arm to assist. Hurgen batted his son’s hand away with a frown and resumed climbing. Ilan opened his mouth to speak, but Hurgen waved him off. A hand clamped around his other arm like steel. Hurgen turned in indignation, but was met by the unwavering gaze of his eldest. By the Sword, he was strong!
“We don’t have time for pride, Papa!” Tojon shouted, and then practically lifted his father off of his feet and they fairly flew up the hill. All the way up, Hurgen wavered between anger at being defied and pride in Tojon for standing up to him. By the time they reached the top Hurgen had put aside his stubbornness, reminding himself that now was the time to be smart, to be aware. Still, he yanked his arm out of Tojon’s grasp at the top, if only to rub it where his boy’s grip had ached him. Hurgen’s breath was a rhythmic roar in his ears. At least it gave him a break from that damned music.
“We need to find Brenjar.” Hurgen said between great gulps of air.
“We know, Papa.” Ilan replied. “We have an idea of where he may be.” He pointed up the trail. “Look there!”
The opposite side of the hill was a shallow descent. Just in front of them was a laden cart, it’s mule grazing, and its owner slumped over on the driver’s board. Hurgen believed the man’s name was Bligdan and he could see the man’s shoulders heaving. In front of him was a family wagon, covered in canvas. Hurgen couldn’t see it’s owners, and it slowly rocked back and forth on its springs. Beyond that, the trail and the carts on it were only visible as glimpses winding through the greengold. There was something, though. He saw many glimpses, and where Ilan pointed, smoke was just visible above the trees.
“A fire?” Hurgen asked, alarmed at the thought of what a forest fire could do to the line of incapacitated settlers. Tojon shook his head.
“We think it’s deliberate, Papa. The line is stacked up, and they’re cutting and burning to clear a path.”
Hurgen nodded. “Ah. Of course, and where there’s burning to be done…”
“…we’ll find Brenjar’s watchful eye.” Finished Ilan, and turned to start directly for the smoke. Hurgen caught him by the shoulder.
“Listen to me, boys. We’ll pass a lot of suffering, even on the straight route. Stop only if necessary to save a life. We need Brenjar.” His eyes traveled from Ilan’s to Tojon’s, making sure they understood, making sure they would think. “Keep eye on the fire ahead. If it goes wild, we go back. We go to the last ford and pray it’s enough to save us.” He paused, considering the distances involved. “And no slowing to help an old man. You run and save our family.” His sons’ eyes widened, and while Tojon nodded in mute understanding, Ilan shook his head savagely.
“No, Papa. We won’t…”
“Leave me? That’s exactly what you’ll do.” Hurgen turned and started towards the front of the line before his son could issue further protest. After a moment, a moment in which Ilan looked to his older brother for help and found none, the Hurgensens followed their father. Ilan stared at his brother angrily as they quickly picked their way through the trackless wood; through the greengold columns of light.
“You could’ve…” Ilan began, his ire needing a target. Tojon cut him off.
“He’s right.” Was all he said, and they continued in strained silence, the sinuous song plying about their ears.
It was difficult to leave those they passed. They cut across the winding trail several times, and at each crossing, the wails of the tormented settlers nearly drowned the music out. They saw the old and young laid about without dignity, hands clutching at dirt and fallen leaves seeking surcease that was not there. At each, Ilan would hesitate, wanting to tear his shirt to rags. Only Tojon’s hand on his arm or shoulder would spur him to follow his father’s unrelenting footsteps. In his older brother’s face, Ilan could read the same reluctance to move on, but Tojon kept his eyes focused on their destination. It didn’t take them long to reach it.
Passing the front most wagons, they saw a thick stand of trees. In fact, the whole forest thickened here, and the trees were much thinner. Here the greengold faded to merely diffused sunlight, save for the bright clearing made by the settlers axes. Gray-brown patches of ash and dirt marked where axe and fire made short work of stumps left by the felled trees. Several stumps still burned, sending columns of smoke into the windless blue. They could see the tenders, their axes and shovels forgotten, lying in the sun. Backs arched or curled in anguish, fingers grasping at imagined people or places, their childlike sobs followed the smoke into the uncaring sky. Hurgen barely looked at them, giving them enough eye to see that each was not the guide he sought, but no more. He led his sons, weaving between the columns of smoke, to where they finally saw Brenjar. The guide knelt in supplication, prostrating himself before a tree, unremarkable save for the dark stain upon its bark. His normally neat hair was shiny and wild, and looked as if whole clumps were missing. As Hurgen and his boys crept closer, the woodsman’s chanting could be heard.
“Spirit in wood-made-flesh accept
Of this, my unworthy blood. Bereft
Of spirit I kneel before thee.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.”
Brenjar lifted his left hand, covered in blood. He turned it to face the tree then dragged the knife in his right across the already wounded palm. His head kicked back in pain, but only a stifled groan escaped his clenched teeth. Fresh blood poured down his arm and he laid it gently upon the tree, repeating:
“Spirit in wood-made-flesh accept
Of this, my unworthy blood. Bereft
Of spirit I kneel before thee.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.”
He left his hand like that waiting expectantly as fresh rivulets worked their way down the rough bark. He was whispering, but they couldn’t hear what it was he was saying. After a moment, his whispers became shouts.
“Why, why?” His hands came to his head and clutched at his hair, the knife tumbling to the ground. His head bent to his knees and Brenjar began yanking at his hair in mad frustration. “Stop! Stop! Why won’t you stop?” He groaned in resignation and his right hand clutched at the knife on the ground, as he raised his head to begin anew. Hurgen somehow found his voice.
“Brenjar! What…” He began to shout, but the ranger whirled to face them and cut him off with hysterical words and unfocused eyes.
“No, NO! Youwillnotstoptheatonementforthefaultismineismine…” His words dissolved into a language Hurgen didn’t know as Brenjar thrust his left hand at them, fingers oddly splayed. There was an odd silence; a pause in which Hurgen could clearly hear the spatters of blood hit the forest floor.
The trees around them exploded into motion.
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