A misty arm pointed back to Tol’chuk. “Rise and claim the Heart. The burden is now yours.”
Tol’chuk’s eyes widened. He made a sound of refusal, speaking Og’re.
“Half-breed or not, you are og’re,” the shadowy figures answered dolefully. “Take the Heart and fear not. We will remain in the stone between the two worlds to guide you where we can.”
Still Tol’chuk balked, shaking his head.
The words of the ghosts grew sharper. “Do you forsake your duty like your ancestor?”
Tol’chuk’s head sprang up.
The words softened. “It is true. The Oathbreaker refused the mantle of guardianship in his time. Will you walk his path or your own?”
Silence again pressed down on the cavern. Then Tol’chuk rose to his feet. Reaching over the bodies, he lifted the jewel from the tangle of limbs. Its glow flared brighter, as if it recognized him.
“The assembly has been summoned for this night,” the ghosts echoed. “Go take your place as leader. Dark times lie ahead for our people. Even we can’t see down that twisted path. Let the Heart guide you.”
The three figures dissolved back to mists and drew into the stone, like smoke up a chimney flue. Words still flowed: “As with your last journey, you know your first step . . . You know where you must go.”
Tol’chuk’s face tightened.
Jaston saw the understanding in his amber eyes—and the fear.
Tol’chuk stared into the crystal planes of the heartstone as the last of the Triad vanished. Deep in his own heart, he felt familiar hooks take root. This same stone had guided him across Alasea, drawing him along the path to the carved mountain in Gul’gotha. But this time he felt no compulsion, no direction. From here, though he was linked to the Heart, he would need to decide his own path.
The fate of the og’re people now rested with him. Dark times lie ahead. Tol’chuk did not doubt the final words of the Triad. The Oathbreaker still lived. The Beast would not ignore his people forever, especially while his descendant plotted against him.
Tol’chuk lowered the stone and stared across the Triad’s corpses to those kneeling beyond: males and females, the old and the young, the strong and the infirm. They knew nothing of the world beyond their lands, or of the danger on their doorstep.
Tol’chuk stood straighter, no longer hiding his half-breed status. What had once shamed him now seemed insignificant. After the horrors and the acts of bravery he had witnessed on his long journey, by peoples from all the lands, such trifles as mixed blood paled to nothing.
As the Triad had stated, he was og’re. These were his people. And it was time for him to wake them.
His eyes fell upon Hun’shwa. The leader of the warriors kept his head bowed. “Hun’shwa,” Tol’chuk said. “Rise.”
The og’re obeyed, but would not meet his gaze.
“I’ll need three of your hunters to carry our fallen into the Chamber of the Spirits.”
The other grunted to those who flanked him; they carefully began clearing the bodies. Hun’shwa addressed Tol’chuk. “What of the Assembly, the summons?”
Tol’chuk frowned; the warrior was right. The other tribes would gather at the Dragon’s Skull, unaware of what had occurred here. His own Toktala clan must appear, too. He motioned to Hun’shwa. “Gather our people. We will head out with the setting sun.”
Hun’shwa glanced up, eyes flashing. “But the Triad summoned the gathering, and now they are gone. Who will speak?”
Tol’chuk had not considered that far.
Hun’shwa pointed to Tol’chuk and answered his own question. “The elders called you the One. You must lead the Assembly.”
Tol’chuk began to object, but he had no argument. It seemed the Triad had not wanted to give Tol’chuk a chance to shirk his duties. This very night, before all the clans, Tol’chuk would need to claim the mantle of spiritual leader.
He tightened his hold on the jeweled stone. “If I must speak, I will need time to prepare.”
Tol’chuk watched the elders’ bodies being hauled toward the flame-lit crack in the back wall and remembered the last words of the Triad: You know your first step . . . You know where you must go. Tol’chuk sighed. Long ago, he had carried the limp form of Fen’shwa through the crack to the Chamber of the Spirits beyond. There he had first faced the Triad and had begun the path that had led full circle back to here.
Holding the stone to his chest, Tol’chuk strode through the cursed gate of his old homestead.
“Where are you going?” Magnam asked behind him.
Tol’chuk pointed toward the bluish flames. He spoke without turning, without stopping. “I must walk the path of the dead.”
Through her pet’s eyes, Mama Freda watched the giant stride away. The other og’res fled from his path, a mix of fear and reverence commingled in their musk. Tikal chittered at the smell, his senses more acute than those of a man. Mama Freda waited until their large companion disappeared into the far crack; then, directing Tikal with her own desires, she studied the others.
She suspected they only understood a fraction of what had transpired, while she understood each word. The guttural tongue of these people was not unknown to her—a knowledge she kept to herself. Their language was a mix of gesture, posture, and grunts, requiring both a keen eye and ear. Tikal had both.
“Freda, would you like to rest?” Jerrick asked, offering to guide her to a stone seat by the pile of logs and tinder. The d’warf Magnam began to light a fire. Jaston helped, shaving curls of wood from a branch to catch the flint’s spark.
Mama Freda patted the elv’in captain’s hand. “I’m fine, Jerrick. Go see if you can dig out some bread and hard cheese. The others must be hungry.”
He did not budge. His blue eyes sparked with concern for her. “Freda . . . ?”
“I’m fine,” she said more strongly.
She recognized the worry in his hard gaze and sighed. She wished she had never confided in Jerrick about the weakness in her heart. But the pain that had woken her a few nights back had been impossible to hide. She had been forced to admit her secret. Even her herbs could no longer keep the pain at bay, but at least they continued to ease her breathing.
After learning of her ailment, Jerrick had been furious with her for undertaking this journey. But deep inside, Mama Freda knew she had no choice. For countless winters, she had been alone—blind, disfigured, a foreigner among strangers. Only now, so late in her life, had she found someone to share her heart, as Tikal shared her senses. Bonded, one knowing the other. She would not spend her remaining time away from him.
She gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. “Go help the others.”
He nodded and released her. She eyed him as he departed: his white hair tied back, his figure lean and still strong for his age. A smile traced her lips as she turned away. He doted on her like a mother wolf with a lame cub. And for some reason, after so many years as a healer, it felt good to have someone look after her.
She stepped toward the layered stones that marked off Tol’chuk’s compound. Fardale guarded the entrance, but Freda aimed farther back, toward a cluster of og’res. She leaned heavily on her cane, appearing feeble, no threat to the og’res beyond the fence line.
The large og’re named Hun’shwa stood with a clutch of others, all muscled and scarred. Hun’shwa glanced her way, but dismissed her—not only a female, but a human, and an old, eyeless one at that.
She listened to their talk.
“Do you balk?” one of the others grunted to Hun’shwa. This fellow was the most gnarled og’re she had ever seen, like the twisted stump of a tree. He wore a bit of wolfskin over one shoulder in a half cloak.
“Don’t press me, Cray’nock,” Hun’shwa growled.
“You gave your word to the Ku’ukla clan.” The stranger nodded to the flame-lit crack. “That half-breed demon killed my brother.” He lifted the edge of his wolfskin to bare the burned scar on his forearm.
Mama Freda saw that the de
sign didn’t match the clan markings here.
“I know what I swore to the Ku’ukla,” Hun’shwa grumbled angrily.
Cray’nock spat on the stone floor. “Do not be fooled by his magick. He tricks you, weakens your heart with the shade of your son.”
Hun’shwa turned to glare at the twisted og’re. “Do not mention my son again.”
Cray’nock curled his nose, ignoring the threat. “And what of the Triad? Do you truly believe evil was not involved with their deaths?”
Hun’shwa lowered his voice. “Their ghosts—”
The other og’re spat again. “Demon trickery. My brother’s hunting mates spoke of how he called demons from the sky. What then is a bit of smoke and whispers? More trickery, I say.”
Hun’shwa’s stony face tightened with doubt.
Cray’nock pressed on. “He killed your son. He murdered Fen’shwa.”
Hun’shwa spun with a thunderous growl, but the other og’re was already disappearing among his wolfskin-draped brothers.
“Do not speak my son’s name!” Hun’shwa rumbled. “I will not warn you again. Do not dare disturb his spirit!”
Cray’nock spoke from among his brethren. “You promised to bring the new Ku’ukla leader the head of that half-breed cur! I ask you again—do you balk?”
Hun’shwa growled. “I will think upon my words.”
Cray’nock sneered. “Think quickly, Hun’shwa—or war will come to your caves. The mountains will run red with your clan’s blood. This I swear!” He turned away with the others, but not before one final jibe: “And the Ku’ukla clan won’t balk!”
As the others left, Hun’shwa was left with a trio of his own warriors. “What will you do?” one of them asked.
Hun’shwa glanced to the crack in the back wall and sighed. “I will make my decision by the time of the Assembly. If the Triad spoke truly, Tol’chuk must be protected.”
“And if it was a trick?”
Hun’shwa glowered. “Then I will slay Tol’chuk on the steps of the Dragon.” He swung away, waving toward the departing clutch of clansmen. “Watch them.”
Mama Freda leaned on her cane, considering the last words of the og’re. It was a wise command. She eyed the departing members of the Ku’ukla clan. They did indeed bear watching. Something more was afoot than was plainly evident. Otherwise, why doubt what was witnessed here? The spiritual energies all but touched one’s heart—og’re or not.
Deep down, Hun’shwa knew the truth. Though he hesitated in betraying his prior promise, she sensed he believed all that had transpired here. But as leader of this tribe, he also had to consider the threat of the Ku’ukla clan.
She studied the hostile group. They, too, had witnessed the miracle of the Triad’s passing and a new spiritual leader being chosen, but they denied the truth. Why? Something was hidden here . . . something that needed the attention of a closer eye.
She reached to her shoulder and touched Tikal. “Go, follow,” she whispered, sending her desire directly into her sense-bonded companion. “Do not be seen.”
Tikal shivered, frightened to leave her side. His worries passed to her through their bonds. She stroked the tamrink’s fiery mane. “Follow them . . . but stay hidden and quiet.”
“Big goat sharp sharp.” His eyes grew huge.
“Yes, be careful.” She touched Tikal’s lips with a finger. “And quiet.”
Tikal trembled for a moment more, his eyes on the departing og’res. Then his tail tightened around her neck, embracing. With this short farewell, Tikal bounded from her shoulder and over the fence. He vanished in an instant into the shadows. Mama Freda remained with him, seeing through his eyes as he raced away, staying low, sticking to the darkest corners.
She startled as something touched her.
“The fire’s ready,” Jerrick said at her shoulder. “Come join us by the warmth.”
Mama Freda did not resist this time. She leaned into her lover, letting him guide her. She feigned exhaustion, not blindness. While they walked toward a fire she could not see, her vision ran in shadows toward the cavern entrance. She remained silent about Tikal’s mission. The cavern had many ears, and the acoustics were tricky. She would see what she could discover first.
Once near enough, she felt the glow of the fire and used her cane to guide her to a stone seat. Jerrick settled beside her. No one commented on the missing tamrink. It wasn’t unusual for Tikal to be off her shoulder and scrounging in dark corners.
She faced the fire, pretending to be basking in its warmth, while deep inside she chased a clutch of og’res out into the drizzling gloom, her eyes sharp, her ears keen to any threat, her nose tasting the musk of those she pursued. Soon Tikal edged close enough for her to hear their grumbled words.
“All is ready?” Cray’nock was asking.
“The traps are set,” assured the other.
“Good.” Cray’nock glanced back over a shoulder. Tikal dove behind a scrabbleberry bush. The og’re sniffed at the air, eyeing the entrance to Toktala home cave. “By nightfall, the entire Fang will be ours.”
8
Tol’chuk waited for the last of the og’res to leave the Chamber of the Spirits. The laborers draped the last, limp form beside the other two, positioning cold palms down over the eyes of the dead. This was traditionally done to keep the spirits from attempting to reenter the bodies, but Tol’chuk knew such an act was unnecessary here. The Triad had been only too glad to shed the burden of flesh.
With their duty done, the bearers of the dead departed, leaving Tol’chuk alone with the corpses. He stared around the room. He had only been in here twice: during his naming ceremony and again when he had been a bearer of the dead, carrying Fen’shwa’s limp body.
Tol’chuk turned in a slow circle. The sacred cavern was oval in shape with a bowled floor, like a bubble in the granite. A dozen torches lit the walls, hissing and flickering with blue flames. Shadows danced along the walls like the ghosts of the departed.
Tol’chuk ignored the display and faced the dark tunnel in the far wall. “The path of the dead,” he whispered. It led to the warren of rooms in which the Triad had lived for countless ages. Tol’chuk’s grandfather’s grandfather had bowed to the trio. Now they were gone. The torch had been passed.
Sighing, Tol’chuk crossed the chamber and unhooked one of the blue-flaming brands, accepting what he must do next: to follow the path of the dead to its end, where his journey first began. Once again he must face the Spirit Gate, the crystal heart of the mountain.
Biting back the fear in his heart, Tol’chuk passed under the arch of the tunnel and into the dark gloom beyond. He attempted to keep his mind empty, his worries at bay. He simply trudged onward, winding down into the silent nether regions of the og’re lands.
He was no stranger here, so he was not dismayed when the roof of the passage lowered, forcing him to duck and bow. The air grew bitter with the scent of rock salt and crusted mold. He pressed onward.
Ahead the tunnel branched to the right and left. Which way? Instinctively he knew the answer. Reaching with his free hand, he removed the chunk of heartstone. He held it forward as he neared a pair of corridors and raised the jewel to both paths. It flared brighter when facing the left.
He went that way, trusting the stone to guide him to the Spirit Gate.
After an interminable time and a maze of intersecting passages, Tol’chuk noticed a new glow ahead: not the rose of heartstone, but green like luminescent pond scum.
Moving resolutely, Tol’chuk discovered the source. The tunnels here were covered with eyeless, thumb-long glowworms: floor, walls, and ceiling. They squirmed around and over each other, leaving shiny trails on the bare rock.
Tol’chuk grimaced. He had forgotten about these denizens of the deep cave. He continued onward, crushing them under his bare feet. He remembered Magnam’s description of the creatures, how they always appeared whenever veins or deposits of heartstone were mined. Why they migrated here was not known.
&nbs
p; Holding the Heart aloft, Tol’chuk continued down the passage. Soon the worms were so plentiful that the torch was no longer necessary. He abandoned the brand at a crossroad and continued with just the stone.
Tol’chuk forged on, his skin shining with sweat and worm slime. Just as he was sure he was lost in this warren of tunnels, the passage suddenly lifted from around his shoulders, opening into a gigantic vault.
Tol’chuk stopped at the entrance, straightening, staring across the space. He held the crystal Heart before him. As if the air were fresher here, the flame in the heartstone fanned brighter, and a brilliance burst out, illuminating every corner of the vaulted room.
Its radiance splashed up against the chamber’s far wall and revealed what lay hidden there: an arch of pure heartstone. Its two pillars glinted in the wormlight, each jeweled facet on fire.
Tol’chuk shrank before its majesty, but he moved forward, still holding his stone aloft, shielding his eyes with the other hand.
Bathed in the light, Tol’chuk felt the now-familiar sense of peace and unity with all of life. He stood basking in the radiance for an unknown time.
“Tol’chuk . . .”
He startled in the empty room.
“Tol’chuk, listen to us.”
Pulling his thoughts back to the world of worm and rock, he realized the words arose from the heartstone in his clawed grip. Again a dark mist rose from the stone and spread high, drifting toward the Spirit Gate. The cloud settled to a stop, swirling and churning before the massive arch.
“We dare not cross over yet,” the shades of the Triad whispered. Tol’chuk heard the longing in their words. “There is something we must show you first.”
The mist separated again into three parts. Each sailed to the stone floor and resumed the shape of a bent-backed og’re. “Approach the Spirit Gate.”